A Not-So-Classic Romance
by Galythia
Summary: AU Victorian London. Alfred is a noble bachelor who in no way wants to get married. Arthur is a promising but young actor struggling to pay rent. When the two meet on the street, Arthur drops Alfred's family ring, which gives Alfred an idea: why doesn't Arthur just act the part of his fiancée? Duels, family issues, love triangles (a little FrUK/FrUS), and angst. Cover by Haku.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia, because if I did, these two would be all over each other in so many (*cough*kinky*cough*) ways.

**Background:** This story is based on an RP I did a while ago, but I don't have qualms about adapting it because the original RP idea was mine, and we never got anywhere with the story, so the bulk of it is still original.

* * *

**.: Prologue :.  
**

* * *

_"Arthur, I want you to have this."_

_Arthur looked down at the sapphire ring in his hands, so delicate and pristine. What was a commoner like him doing in possession of such a valuable object?_

_"I... I can't."_

_"_Please_ Arthur. We both know I only have a few hours left, if at al—"_

_"Don't say that!"_

_Arthur felt a gentle, wrinkled hand placed on top of his own. It was a comforting gesture, but it only served to make his heart ache more. Why did she have to die?_

_"Arthur, dear, take this ring and do whatever you want with it. Sell it if you like... I know you need the money... always working so hard..."_

_The young actor stared down at the ring, lost in his thoughts. If he were to keep it, there was no way he would sell it off. It was like a token of remembrance for the memories he held with the person before him: the kind, wizened shopkeeper. To make money for school, Arthur worked at the pawn shop on evenings he had free from rehearsal at the theatre. In this big, crowded and uncaring city, that pawn shop was his only refuge; one would hope that for an actor, such a refuge was the stage, but... acting here, as barkeeper number one, or walking man number three... well, it really wasn't what one aspired to be, was it? But the young man's love for the art was too great to be discouraged by such small roles, which he received more for seniority's sake than for skill._

_But Arthur remembered those days when he would feel especially down and out, and he'd come running to the store—to Esmeralda—who would make him tea and comfort him into the wee hours of the morning, if need be. Esmeralda's store was the only place at which he truly felt at home in London. _

_What would he do without her?_

_"I... I..." No, he couldn't think of the right words to say. What does one say when one's second mother is passing away right before one's eyes? Arthur couldn't even _act_ the part, his emotions too overflowing and jumbled to express._

_"I'll take care of it," Arthur finally said through the hiccuping and unsteady breathing that accompanied the act of crying. "I won't sell it off, I promise. I'll take care of it like you took care of me."_

_Esmeralda smiled feebly from the bed that she hadn't left in days. Her breathing was wheezy as she whispered, "That makes me happy, Arthur... You know, I got that ring from... a nobleman I knew... long ago..." The words were coming softer now, accompanied with more coughing._

_"Don't strain yourself!"_

_"... My time has come, dear..."_

_Esmeralda, who had no living relatives, and who considered Arthur to be the son she never had, cupped Arthur's cheek in her light grip. _

_"Just know, from now on... that I always believe... in you. Maybe you will... one day... be rich enough to buy... such a ring..." Esmeralda's eyes twinkled, despite her frail state. "Then you can... give it to the one you... love... and take her hand... with my blessings..."_

_Arthur held Esmeralda's hand as her eyelids fluttered, his heart and mind not willing to believe what he was saying. His body was already reacting, sobbing beyond control. He was too young to see someone he cared about so much die. Things like this just didn't happen when you were nineteen, still in school, and struggling hard to live in such an impersonal city. They just _didn't_. They _couldn't._ Please._

_"I love you so much. Please don't go. PLEASE!" Arthur cried futilely as he gazed upon her wheezing figure. It was the least he could do to be the one—the only one—watching this moment, eyes unwavering from the terrible sight._

_It took all her energy to give Arthur one last smile, which he would treasure as much as the countless other ones in the past, and then, with a look towards God, she passed away._

_Arthur sat there for at least an hour, unable to move a muscle. He was numb. Everywhere—his torso, his arms, his mind, his heart. Nothing wanted to move on. No one else would come see this body. It was such a lonely existence; what had the woman done to deserve such?_

_It wasn't until nighttime that he called in the death and had someone come pick up the body. Arthur barely had enough money to survive day to day, but in exchange for all that Esmeralda had done for him, the least he could do was pay for a proper burial._

_As the proceedings passed, he constantly played with the shining sapphire ring in his pocket, so well-kept that it looked practically new, unlike the battered and time-worn woman he had received it from._

_Arthur's grip tightened on the ring, making a silent promise that he _would_ do great things, become a great actor, act on a grand stage, and then, like she said, buy a ring of equal if not greater caliber and marry someone Esmeralda would be proud of._

_He would do it, and anything be damned if it got in the way._

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Hey, hey, hey! This is the nice teaser prologue for the intricate fic that I have in store for you. Hope this was interesting enough, especially since we _all_ know that noble she got the ring from must have been Alfred (when he was around twenty or so, which you'll see later).

I hope that this hooks you in to reading the rest of the fic as it develops. Come on this adventure with me! =]

I'm excited about writing the next chapter, so it should be up soon. This fic won't have dragons and swordfighting, but it will have duels, princesses, balls, and, of course, a love tug-of-war (involving Francis, so be warned; it's not a serious one where you'll experience much FrUK, since I don't really ship the two, but it's necessary for my love of angst. :3)

Also, please read my other USxUK fic if you haven't had a chance. I _just_ finished it this past weekend, but I'm still always looking for insight and constructive criticism so that my future fics, like this one, can be even better!

See you on the flipside!  
Galythia

P.S. "Cover" for this is forthcoming. I don't have my tablet with me, so I can't draw one yet, but hopefully I'll get it soon and a decent-ish picture (there's a reason why I write instead of draw) will be up when that happens.


	2. Returning Lost Property

_"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight,  
somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."_

- Fyodor Dostoevsky -

* * *

**.: 1. Returning Lost Property :.**

* * *

Arthur glanced quickly toward the sky. Ominous clouds were moving in, promising a spectacle of a thunderstorm. Arthur usually loved rain, the sound of the pitter patter so soothing to his ears—but not today, the day when he had to walk to work, having lent a classmate his bike. He hadn't dressed warmly enough, either, having not realized that it would be such fowl weather later in the day.

_Well, at least it's not raining yet_.

As if right on cue, a cold drop splattered on his head, so sudden and detested by his warmer body that Arthur jumped ever so slightly in surprise. He still had at least a mile to go until he reached the theatre, and rain was never that lenient. He could either run for it, or risk pneumonia, considering the chilly wind as well.

The young actor subconsciously reached into his pocket and pulled out the sapphire ring, which he fumbled around with often out of habit. On an especially dreary day like today, the touch of the ring brought him a certain warmth that he could find nowhere else, the warmth of nostalgia and love.

Keeping the ring in his hand, Arthur started jogging to work, his sack of books bouncing against his back in a way that would get painful if the motion continued for long. His mind was somewhere else, however, as his thoughts meandered back to the past. It had been three years since Esmeralda passed away, and three years since he had vowed those promises to himself—and to Esmeralda. Part of his promise back then included finding the owner of this ring. It would be a pity for the man to never be reunited with such a beauty, and who knows? Maybe the man regretted giving it away, and was now searching for it desperately. Arthur was never a good judge of jewelry, considering he only ever held about two or three different gems in his hands in his life, but the ring seemed highly important. The sapphire was inlaid in an intricate and ornate silver band, complete with finely carved flowers and delicate looking leaves. The stone itself must have cost a fortune, but paired with the ring itself, it was probably priceless.

Arthur had never shown the ring to anyone else, knowing full well that he would most likely get labeled as a thief. After all, what sort of peasant, bordering on actor, would have a legitimate reason for possessing such a costly item? The last thing he wanted was for the ring to get lost in the mix; he would never be able to return it then, and he would have lost something that Esmeralda had clearly held dear.

Thinking on the past and on the ring, Arthur wasn't paying attention at all to where he was running. Thus, it was his mistake that he didn't step out of the way as a nobleman walked by in the opposite direction, as was the accepted practice for people with their difference in status.

Uttering a surprised yell, the young actor fell to the ground. In a natural reflex to catch himself with his hands, Arthur's grip loosened, and the ring was flung somewhere unknown. The young actor glanced up at the man's torso, and his face immediately paled. By the clothing, there was no doubt that the man before him was a nobleman, and god help Arthur: he had gotten mud on the man's pants from the splash of his fall.

Inside Arthur's mind, there was a very swift internal struggle as to whether or not he should put priority on the nobleman he had just bumped into, or the ring that he could very well have just lost. To anyone else, the solution would have been natural: kneel on the ground and beg for forgiveness. Who cared about some ring when you've just angered a nobleman? But this was Arthur, and the ring was the most important thing he owned.

In the end, politeness won out. His mother—his _real_ mother—had raised him to be utmost "British" and respectful, telling him that he should carry with him the manners of a noble, even if he would always be labeled a peasant from the countryside. She even tried to teach him the London accent, which she spoke quite well—though the differences between her accent and his father's accent always confused Arthur as a child, making it almost impossible for the young man to learn until he was at least thirteen. But now, he had gotten it down almost completely, and it came naturally, save for the occasional stray word here and there that betrayed the location of his upbringing.

Arthur mentally prepared himself for a beating, having never had good experiences with nobles before, especially when their stewards would come to the farm's shop to buy goods and haggle his poor family down to practically nothing. They were a bunch of heartless bastards, but it was either he acted well—which _anyone _would tell you he could do—or he got beaten for it and would be late for work. The answer was obvious.

Despite his honest annoyance that the nobleman too hadn't been watching where he was going, Arthur acted perfectly polite and "lower class." Not making eye contact, he quickly scrambled to his knees and bowed his head. "My sincerest apologies, sir." Arthur wasn't scared. He had always been sure of himself, and based on their treatment of his family, he had always had a deep seated resentment for nobles. Nevertheless, despite his heart being strong, and the fact that he believed no nobleman could bring him down, Arthur thought he could be dead by tomorrow, based on the stories he's heard from his fellow actors and classmates. He tensed, waiting for any of the reactions he expected would happen.

However, the actual reaction was most surprising for the young actor: the nobleman chuckled. He _chuckled_. Was this some maniacal and evil cackle in disguise? It didn't sound like it... Arthur looked up, somewhere in his mind appalled by his own boldness. No regular peasant would dare look a nobleman in the eye so directly, but his curiosity got the best of him. Whatever he was ready to face, he wasn't ready to see what he actually did: a genuinely amused, slightly concerned, and some indescribable inquisitive look all coming from a fantastically handsome face. Nor was he ready to encounter those sharp blue eyes, alight with energy. Nor the messy yet combed hair that peeked out from underneath the top hat, all of which framed his indescribable face perfectly. Most of all, Arthur did not expect to see a white gloved hand extended to him to help him up.

Arthur stared at the hand wordlessly for a while. What was he supposed to do? Take it and dirty it with his muddy hands, or not take it and risk offending the man? In the end, Arthur took it, reasoning that nobles shouldn't extend a hand unless they meant it. And if this nobleman before him _hadn't_ meant it, then the young actor's world view of the aristocracy would still hold solid.

But the man was true to his silent word. Arthur felt a gentle pressure as he was helped up. The young actor could feel through the gloves that Mr. Perfect Face's hands were smooth and un-calloused. This man had never done a day's work in his life. And now that Arthur had gotten a good look at the man, he could see that, based on the intricacy and craftsmanship of the embroidery on the man's glove, let alone his whole outfit, he had bumped into one of the more important members of the aristocracy. It was the worst thing that could have happened, next to bumping into the royal family itself. For all Arthur knew, this man in front of him could have fulfilled the last criteria as well.

Arthur immediately let go of the man's hand and apologized for having gotten mud on it, eliciting another delighted chuckle from Mr. Perfect Face. Bowing down, Arthur took the opportunity to scan the ground for that ring, so easily lost in the mud and gray cobblestones. It was nowhere to be found.

His attention was temporarily snapped back to the man before him when the man's soothing velvety voice spoke, "You're soaking wet. If I may, I own an establishment not too far from here where we could both find refuge from this disagreeable weather, Mister..."

"Kirkland! Arthur, I mean. Arthur Kirkland!" The young actor blushed. He was making a complete fool of himself, which was a relatively new experience, considering he usually was able to act perfectly in any which way in front of and with anyone. But in the face of this man, it was all he could do to keep from staring at that jawline. This aristocrat was having the wrong effect on Arthur with his stupid unexpected gentle voice. "I'm very sorr—"

He stopped mid-sentence as he heard an unmistakable klink to the right. Someone had probably just kicked the ring. His head snapped over to the direction, along with the nobleman's, who reached for the shining object and retrieved it before Arthur could do the same. The man's expression had changed ever so slightly, his eyebrows furrowing a little above suddenly shrewd eyes.

"How did you come into possession of this?" the man asked, glancing up with something more than just an inquisitive look.

_Oh Lord._ Arthur knew he was in trouble. He was in deep trouble. Not only would he be expected of theft, but the accusation would be coming from a nobleman. He would lose his job for sure, and any hope of a reputable future one, especially if this turned out to be some big scandal.

"I... uhh..."

A thunderclap interrupted his explanation, turning both of their attentions to the sky and the darkening clouds. Rain was coming down more frequently as the wind picked up to match the storm's intensity. Alfred scowled. He hated the rain.

"Nevermind. Let us get out of this infernal weather and get you dry first."

Arthur wasn't sure if he wanted to accompany the man off to one of his Evil Rich Man Establishments, but considering that the nobleman was still in possession of the ring, and didn't seem like he was going to let it go without a good explanation, the young actor really had no choice. At least the nobleman seemed to have an appreciation for fine jewelry, rather than some beggar who would pawn it off at the first opportunity. Arthur's mind could find some refuge in that fact as he walked off—oddly enough under a shared umbrella—toward... his work?

* * *

They arrived at the theatre within ten minutes, Arthur having run most of the way already before the incident occurred. The poor actor was shivering by now, both out of chill and out of apprehension. After all, he didn't really have a good story to tell, and the truth was not at all believable. Some woman who had gotten it as some sort of present from a nobleman, and then died and gave it to Arthur, who now wasn't selling it for sentimental reasons? _Yeah, right_.

"Good evening, sir," the doorman spoke, recognition showing in his eyes. Standing to attention, the doorman opened one of the grand double doors, and the two of them stepped inside the theatre—through the _front_ door, of all places. Arthur's mind was still in awe that this man before him _owned_ such a majestic establishment, let alone coincidentally the one at which he worked. At least he wouldn't have to worry about getting to work... though he wasn't sure this method of showing up was any better.

Arthur glanced at the nobleman beside him and saw that the man's boots, pants and gloves were soiled. _Serves him right_, he couldn't help thinking, despite the other polite side of him that felt guilt. It wasn't right to harbor all this resentment and rest it upon the shoulders of one man. After all, this specific aristocrat didn't seem so bad, but then again, who could tell? Maybe he was just buttering Arthur up for some sneak attack later.

"Arthur Kirkland, was it? Forgive me for not giving my name earlier. I'm—"

"Marquess Jones!" a voice called from the foot of the grand staircase. Arthur paled and his eyes widened. _A marquess?_ He was definitely in bigger trouble than he thought. Plus, now that Mr. Bradley, the theatre manager, had found them, Arthur was sure to receive punishment from all sides.

A bright-smiling man placed himself between Arthur and the nobleman, giving Arthur a sharp look that spoke volumes about what the hapless actor was in store for later. Marquess Jones, on the other hand, glanced at Arthur inquisitively, wondering at the blatant familiarity between the theatre manager and the young man. How did those two know each other?

"I trust things are running smoothly, Mr. Bradley?"

"Of course, sir. I'm sorry that you had to get mixed in with this lot," the man replied, gesturing apologetically to Arthur's hunched figure behind him.

"It's quite all right, Mr. Bradley. I brought him with me. It seems like he was caught in the storm, just as I was. I thought it best to take him somewhere warm so that he might dry himself before some sickness develops." The second sharp look that Bradley gave Arthur did not escape Alfred's notice.

"Of course, sir. Arthur works here, after all." Arthur looked up just in time to see the nobleman raise a curious eyebrow, those blue eyes locking in with his own green ones. The young actor immediately averted his eyes as Mr. Bradley continued on, "He might have been late had it not been for your kind aid, sir."

Bradley jabbed Arthur in the stomach, causing the actor to bow over and cough out a rushed "Thank you." Though honestly, the actor would have probably arrived earlier had he not encountered Alfred.

The Marquess decided to ignore that violent action for the moment, though it angered him that Bradley would treat one of his actors so badly. There was no way that he was going to leave Arthur in Bradley's care in the man's current mood, for the nobleman was sure that bruises would be the least of Arthur's worries if that were to happen. The Marquess made a mental note to replace Bradley at the first opportunity, once he arrived back home. This theatre could do without the likes of him.

"Mr. Bradley," The Marquess spoke, his voice taking on an edge, "Don't you have something to attend to? Surely my theatre cannot run itself."

Bradley nodded nervously, that tone making him stand on edge. "Of course, sir. I'll... err... be taking my leave, then, sir." The manager took one last glance at Arthur and went off through the door that would lead backstage.

Arthur said nothing, his stomach churning at the day's events thus far. Not only was he shivering and soaking wet, but his bike was probably rusting somewhere (he treasured that contraption quite a bit), he had bumped into a noble who was now most likely to rage at him for being a thief, and he had gotten Bradley livid. Today could not be worse.

Marquess Jones looked upon the young, dripping actor with pity. The young man didn't look to be older than eighteen. What was he doing here, working at this theatre under Bradley's strict hands?

"Follow me," the Marquess uttered, turning a sharp left and walking down the hall. Arthur complied immediately, those words having been spoken with such well-practiced command. The man before him was no doubt a very high, very rich noble.

_What have you gotten yourself into_?

* * *

They entered a room at the end of the hall down which Arthur had never been allowed to walk, let alone venture through any of the doors lining it. The inside of the room was lavishly furnished, complete with ornate golden trimmings, paintings of cherubic angels on the high ceiling, and thick, crimson drapery. To Arthur, who had rarely seen such lavish decor in his life, save for the inside of the theatre hall itself, this seemed like a room befitting a castle. He would have stopped to stare in awe had his mind not been preoccupied by the matter at hand: the ring.

Arthur immediately deviated to the fireplace, his shivering body hungering for that beckoning warmth. The Marquess didn't seem to mind or pay attention to what the actor was doing. The man, instead, was pouring himself a glass—wait. Pouring _two _glasses—of scotch. Then, never ceasing to surprise Arthur with each new action, the man unshouldered his coat, hung it up, and proceeded to flop himself down on one of the armchairs.

"Ahhhh, it feels good to be in private once and for all, doesn't it?"

The actor was shocked; the man's accent had changed from complete aristocratic British to one tinged very slightly with... with what? Welsh? No. Irish? No. American? Yes. American. Wait—_American_? What was this man doing speaking in such a ignoble tongue all of a sudden? Or acting in such a socially unacceptable way? And, most importantly, how was Arthur supposed to react to this?

The Marquess glanced over at the silent, wide-eyed actor standing awkwardly by the fireplace. He couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. "Stop being so tense," the Marquess managed to utter amidst bouts of laughter which weren't being helped by Arthur's increasingly alarmed expression. "I'm not going to eat you." The Marquess picked up one of the scotch glasses and held it up to Arthur. "Here. Have a drink. It'll warm you up."

Arthur made no move toward the glass, half out of shock and half out of wariness. This might just be the most devious and crafty aristocratic ploy he had heard of yet. What if the man was waiting for him to make some move and then bam! The trap would be complete? Arthur didn't want to take that risk; he didn't know enough about aristocratic customs. Like, what if the man offering the scotch with his right hand was actually some secret signal for a duel, and accepting it would also mean accepting whatever fight came with it? Arthur had never held a real gun in his life, let alone shoot someone. And even if he did win, he would most likely be executed or forever incarcerated for murdering a noble.

"You're cute when you blush," the Marquess commented, making the actor turn even redder. Marquess Jones was highly amused as to how startled Arthur seemed to be reacting to the whole situation. Standing up, the Marquess walked over and placed the glass in Arthur's hand, letting go immediately. If the actor didn't hold on, then the glass would fall and shatter; simple as that.

The actor caught the glass and gripped it tightly, his opinion of nobles not at all improving by what he was witnessing. Not only was the aristocrat before him laughing at Arthur's expense, but the man was also such an intriguing mystery, so different and unpredictable compared to the nobility that Arthur thought he knew—based on stories—that he might just turn out to be the most evil of them all. What if he was so evil that even the aristocracy feared his odd ways? Arthur almost dropped the glass in worry. He couldn't be that unlucky, could he? God was understanding. Please, let God be understanding.

Arthur never let his eyes stray from the aristocrat as the man walked back to his armchair, his gait somehow seeming commanding and lazy all at once. And somewhere in there, the young actor noticed that the man looked awfully tired, and it wasn't the sort that came from a hard day's work; it was the sort of weariness that only rose from prolonged exposure to an especially taxing matter. Arthur knew that look from—surprise, surprise—his own parents, when they dealt with the nobility that "gave them their business." Those bastards were so damn selfish, and though Arthur could not yet pass judgment on this man before him, their difference in stature had already started the relationship—if any—off on the wrong foot.

"Anyways, Mister Kirkland—"

"Arthur. Call me Arthur," the young actor quickly interrupted. Mister Kirkland would forever be his father, and Arthur didn't like his father's name being soiled by passing through some bastard noble's lips. "Please," he added as a second thought, hoping it would sooth some possible aristocratic anger.

"Very well, _Arthur__._" That amused smile never left the man's lips—a fact which Arthur knew quite well, considering his eyes refused to stray from that man's riveting face, no matter how much his mind panicked and told those eyes to stand down. "I still haven't properly introduced myself." The Marquess gave a half bow from where he was sitting, which, despite his odd positioning on the couch, still managed to look utmost graceful and noble. "My name is Alfred Jones—Marquess. Though," the man's eyes twinkled as he straightened up, "I suspect you might know my father better. Sir Edward Cavendish Harrington II, Duke of Devonshire." Alfred had the satisfaction of seeing Arthur's jaw drop in surprise, though the Marquess was impressed at how quickly the actor recovered to reply.

"I am very... ah... humbled to make your acquaintance," Arthur finally said, having spent a little bit of time searching for the right word. No well informed peasant could go without hearing of the Duke of Devonshire, whose steward haggled penniless people down the point where they seemed to be paying _him_ to eat their crops. Little was known about the Duke himself, except the fact that he had been knighted for bravery in warfare, though there were many rumors flying about, as always. Many of the rumors were of the type which, if spoken even close to a noble's hearing, one could probably get hung on the spot for uttering. Such was the legend of the Devil Duke of Devonshire.

... And here was his offspring. In the flesh. Plopped down in a chair, offering scotch to Arthur Kirkland, peasant.

The young actor glanced at his own glass as if it were a viper. For all he knew, it could be just as poisonous as a viper. If this man really was the son of the Devil Duke—and there would be no reason for him to lie—then Arthur's initial hunch about him being the worst of all nobles might just be right on target.

However, not wanting to offend the man—though honestly not sure which alternative, poison or offense, was worse—Arthur took a small sip of the scotch. He winced, feeling the foul liquid burn its way down his esophagus. Scotch would be very bad for his projection on stage. But the Marquess had been right in saying that it would warm him up. He could feel the fire spread to his limbs, as the actual fire behind him warmed his back and slowly dried off his clothes.

"So... Arthur." The young actor watched with apprehension as Marquess Jones—who honestly should be called Marquess Harrington, and part of Arthur's mind was stuck on why that wasn't the case—played with the sapphire ring in his hand, having cleaned it off on his glove and now was watching it shine with dancing fire light. "How did you come to possess this object?"_  
_

This was _the_ question, and though Arthur had been trying to think of a suitable answer for quite some time, nothing had come but the truth. And his mother had always taught him that telling the truth was the best way to go about things anyways. "God had a way of understanding and guiding," she would say. Arthur crossed his fingers and hoped dearly that God—who hadn't really proved his existence one way or another to the hapless actor—would lend some guidance now.

The actor shifted uncomfortably for a bit, sure that the action made him seem even guiltier of something terrible, when in honestly, he was wondering whether or not he could sit down, as he didn't trust his legs to receive the punishment standing. As much as he wanted to stick it to the man, Arthur wasn't the strongest when it came to pain, and he avoided it wherever he could. Plus, he couldn't go and upset the status quo like that; he was at least smart enough to realize that there were better, more passive ways to go about it. He hated that all his life, he had been like this: hating the aristocracy, yet too much of a coward to do anything about it. And too polite to boot. It was a war he could not win.

"Might I take a seat, first, sir?" Arthur asked tentatively, gesturing with his empty hand to the other armchair of the two facing the fireplace.

"Of course. Please."

The young actor took a seat in that all too comfortable looking chair, though honestly, it could have been a wooden stool, and he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, considering how tense he was. The man took a deep breath—_here goes nothing_—and started into his story, not sure what parts to say and what parts to leave out. He had to explain how he knew Esmeralda, which then meant he had to explain money for school, which then led to why he was going to acting school, which then led to his work here and why he had come to London in the first place. It was practically the whole past six years of his life laid bare for inspection.

It wasn't a nice feeling.

Alfred didn't interrupt at all as Arthur told his story, though he kept his eyes trained on the actor, who was obviously trying really hard not to look back. The handsome Marquess had that effect on people, though he'd never been happy about it. It did come in handy, sometimes, nevertheless.

When the young actor finished, he finally glanced up to gauge the Marquess's reaction, and his bushy eyebrows furrowed. What he saw wasn't what he expected. There were tears in the Marquess's eyes, and he was looking at the fireplace now, instead of at the actor. Other things in the man's demeanor had changed too: there was no longer that playful smirk, and those eyes didn't twinkle mischievously, but were rather serious, actually. Arthur never deemed himself a good story teller, and in fact, he had glanced right over Esmeralda's death, the memory still too raw in his mind to tell, especially to someone he barely knew. He had remembered getting angry when he mentioned her death, already reacting to the laughter that he had been expecting to get. But now he saw that his anger was unwarranted; this man before him seemed to be equally affected too—but why?

"She's... gone," Alfred whispered into the silence. Arthur said nothing, but his expression held the same confusion as before. It seemed the Marquess knew Esmeralda, based on his reaction and the way he had just said those words. Arthur could hear the sadness one possessed when someone one personally knew and liked—if not loved—died. If anything, he had spent countless hours rehearsing the difference between such a sadness and other sadnesses, like feigned sadness, or lovesick sadness—all in an effort to be the best actor out there. He could tell.

Alfred wiped his tears away and laughed a hollow laugh. "You must think me quite odd. I apologize." He tried to flash Arthur a bright smile, but what came across was more of a watery grimace that made the Marquess look absolutely pitiful. Arthur had to fight the human nature urge to hug the man—a fact which startled him beyond compare. The young actor never thought the day would come when he would have that urge toward another fully grown man, let alone an aristocrat, who was of a class which he hated with every fiber of his being. And somehow, irrationally, he grew to dislike Marquess Jones more _because_ the man caused these weird feelings. Who did the guy think he was, coming into Arthur's life and messing it up like that? _Arrogant lily-livered toadwart, _Arthur thought, his mind, as always, deep in Shakespeare.

Despite that thought, however, Arthur could see that those were genuine tears, and it made his heart soften that someone else in the world would cry for Esmeralda. His mind was changing left and right about his opinion regarding this man.

"Let me offer you an explanation which I think will suffice," Alfred started. "I knew her, long ago. When I turned eighteen, my father gave me the family ring, which"—Alfred held the sapphire ring up in the space between them, which had gotten awfully small ever since the Marquess had sat up and leaned forward; it was almost conspiratorial—"as you've probably guessed, is this one right here."

Arthur was quite surprised. He had not guessed. Based on the way Esmeralda had said it on her deathbed, Arthur had expected someone much older, someone that Esmeralda would have known maybe twenty years ago. But this man couldn't have been much older than twenty anyways, and there was no way a child would be in possession of such a valuable object. Well, at least now he wouldn't have to keep wondering as to whom that ring belonged. He knew he would have to return it now, though he couldn't help but feel torn. It was his last physical connection to Esmeralda, after all.

Alfred paused for a bit, just for the same reason that Arthur had before. What to tell, and what to leave out? The Marquess's gut instinct about the man before him was one of trust, an instinctual reaction that seldom occurred with anyone else. Always not one to overthink things like this, Alfred trusted his quick judgment and went with it.

"I was supposed to use it to find someone suitable, court her, and marry her. But, for certain reasons"—okay, maybe not _that_ much trust that he'd reveal what those reasons were; _no one_ knew—"and because the prospect of being tied down terrifies me,"—the Marquess glanced at Arthur to gauge the man's reaction—"I gave the ring to Esmeralda, intent on never marrying."

Arthur gave nothing away by his expressions, which he was trying very hard to put into a calm facade, despite his racing mind. Thus, the Marquess continued, "Now I know you're wondering how I came to know Esmeralda. It's a long story, but, as I'm sure you know, she has a way of making everyone feel loved and at home." Arthur couldn't help the small scowl that escaped his tight emotional hold. _Damn_, his acting was slipping in the face of such an interesting man. But Arthur didn't like being lumped in with Marquess Jones straight off the bat just because they had a common acquaintance. After all, he was sure that his relationship with the woman and the Marquess's relationship were entirely different.

"She treated me like I was her son whenever I came to visit the shop—which I started doing from age eighteen, on a night when I wandered the city, aimlessly hoping for a distraction from the fate that was marriage." Alfred was too lost in his reminiscence to really notice much of what Arthur was doing anymore, having returned his attention to the fireplace. "She listened to me, and comforted me, and told me a slew of wonderful stories. She always knew what to say and how to cheer up my day." The Marquess sighed. "Thus, when I turned twenty and decided that I _would not_ marry, it was only natural to give her the ring. I went there on my birthday with that intention, and she refused right off the bat," Alfred uttered, smiling at the memory. Esmeralda was just that type of person, and the both of them knew that. "But I insisted, and eventually, she said she would put it in safe keeping for me."

The Marquess looked down at his feet, his posture screaming of shame and regret. "I haven't seen her since."

Arthur waited for more of the story, or at least an explanation, but none was forthcoming. It wasn't the story he had expected to hear, and it somehow made him feel kinder toward the nobleman and angry at him at the same time. How could Esmeralda have treated him so well, yet he never went back to visit once since that time?

"If I may, sir," Arthur started, sure he was overstepping some line somewhere, "but how old are you currently?"

"... Twenty-five."

Five years ago. That was _five years _ago. There was no way that a man would be too busy to go back and visit for _five years_. Albeit, Esmeralda had been dead for three of those five, but still. It made Arthur angry nevertheless. Whatever softening feelings he had for the nobleman disappeared. The man didn't deserve to know Esmeralda. Arthur was so annoyed that he could very well have punched something, except for the fact that he was sure he'd get fined for whatever he broke. Being a peasant, no matter how irrational you got, you were always mindful of money.

"And you?" Alfred asked, tentatively glancing at Arthur. Despite how the actor struggled to hide it, Alfred could see that the man was annoyed, if not angry, with the way that story ended. It was only natural; Alfred was angry in himself, too. He had been foolish, too afraid to come back to the place that housed such a symbolic object, despite the wonderful memories that it held too. But what if Esmeralda had insisted on giving back his ring? Alfred was too much of a coward, too scared of contracts and settling down, losing his freedom, and marrying a _woman_, a gender which he had learned long ago he would never love in a lover's way, that he never could bring up the courage to go back. And now it was too late. _  
_

"Twenty-two," Arthur's steeled voice replied softly. "_Sir._" He was obligated to answer because it was a nobleman to whom he was speaking, but he didn't want to talk to this man—the man who had abandoned Esmeralda—any more than necessary. Even though he himself had only known Esmeralda for two years, his connection with the woman was something he treasured deeply. It wasn't nice to see someone throw away such a valuable woman, especially without explanation.

"You look younger," Alfred spoke with a light voice. They seemed to be fishing at things to fill the silence now.

"I get that a lot." Screw the "sir" thing. The Marquess would just have to deal with it.

"Look, I know you're angry—"

"You have _no idea_—" but as those words left his mouth, he regretted it immediately. His anger was getting the better of him, and he had forgotten for just a moment to whom he was speaking. "Sorry," he hastily spoke, bowing his head down deeply. The deeper you went the more respectful the bow; Arthur's nose was practically touching his knees. _Stupid!_ he chided himself. It was one thing to hold resentment against someone, but it was another to act so rashly.

"Don't be. You're right." Arthur's head snapped back up in surprise. No angry blow? No harsh words? Just what sort of game was this guy _playing_? The young actor had a feeling that he would never be able to figure out the nobleman, which made him defensive all the more. This guy_ definitely_ was the most dangerous of them all.

"I have my reasons, you know," Alfred continued, "but you should know, Arthur, that I am deeply ashamed and filled with regret." The Marquess was trying to explain himself to the actor, though he didn't quite know why. Something about the young actor made Marquess Jones want to be accepted; he wanted to be in this man's good graces, even though the good graces of someone of such stature really didn't matter in the aristocratic world. Yet, nevertheless, it hurt his heart to feel such disapproval emanating from that bushy-eyebrowed face that he barely knew, and he yearned to bring a smile to replace that scowl.

The long silence that followed felt very awkward to the both of them. What was Arthur supposed to say? _Good for you, you deserve all those feelings, 'thou fry of treachery'__? _That would be such an insult to Macbeth. Plus, that would be crossing so many lines that he might as well have been running across the wooden floors of the theatre. Thus, the actor settled on changing the subject.

"Anyways, considering it's yours, sir"—that word was just uttered out of habit now—"I... uhh... It's my pleasure to return the ring to you." The good thing about being an actor is that once Arthur actually calmed down a bit, he could disguise his voice quite well. No one could tell that he was utterly mortified at the concept of giving up that item, especially to the Devil Duke's son who had spurned Esmeralda so, even if it rightly belonged to the man.

But Alfred was smart enough to know Arthur's feelings on the matter nevertheless; it was clear the ring held a great importance to the young actor. Alfred would feel the same way if he were in the same situation. And the Marquess still wasn't planning on getting married anyways, despite the increasing pressures from his father. He was soon going to pass the prime age of thirty, after all, and that would be getting to a late point in the world of marriage prospects. If Alfred wanted a beautiful woman—which wasn't troublesome to find, considering how much he got chased around and flirted with at balls and other social events—he would have to act soon. The problem was that he didn't want a beautiful _woman—_something which was completely unacceptable and unthinkable in society of any level, let alone the aristocracy. And worst of all, he could tell no one.

"You know," Alfred started, definitely working up to something. "I've seen you before. One can't own a good playhouse and never watch its plays."

The surprises just kept coming tonight for Arthur. In light of such new developments, he had almost completely forgotten that this man before him owned the room in which they were sitting, and the whole building around it. The Marquess had just seemed so human a second ago that it had escaped Arthur's mind that this man was rich beyond imagination.

The young actor blushed. "That's not surprising," Arthur replied, wholly surprised, of course.

Alfred leaned in, holding the ring up to the light. "How about this..." Alfred began, a plan forming in his head. "Might I have your hand?" Seeing Arthur's struggling and distrustful expression, which the young actor was trying so hard to hide, some of Alfred's humor returned to him. Alfred chuckled. "As I said, I don't bite."

Arthur tentatively offered the man his left hand, feeling utterly ridiculous and princess-esque with the way he carried off the gesture. It wasn't his fault that, because of his young age and soft facial features, he was almost always cast as a female in plays. Thus, the movement, with fingers pointed downward and wrist delicately curved up, came naturally, and before he could fix it, Alfred had already caught his hand.

Alfred slipped the sapphire ring onto Arthur's slender ring finger, where it surprisingly fit so nicely that it almost seemed the ring had been measured specifically for that purpose. Marquess Jones delighted in the fact that the actor had offered his left hand; it made the playful symbolism all the more perfect, and Alfred needed some cheering up right now. No doubt his true depression would come when he got back to his manor. Thus, for now, he had to enjoy what he could while he could.

"You can have the ring, as long as you promise to wear it when you play Juliet."

Arthur really felt like snatching his hand away, partly out of surprise and partly out of embarrassment. Who did this arrogant bastard think he was, waltzing in out of nowhere and mimicking a proposal on their first encounter? And what nonsense was he spouting?

"Juliet?"

"Yes, Juliet," the Marquess spoke, letting go of Arthur's hand and leaning back in his chair. He finished his scotch without further explanation. Arthur had a feeling that he wouldn't get much more out of the subject from the odd—possibly a little off in the head—nobleman.

Alfred took the silence, along with those blushing cheeks, and the fact that Arthur still hadn't taken the ring back off, as a sign that the promise was made.

Glancing at his pocket-watch, Alfred stood up and leaned his head forward ever so slightly—no deep bows coming from nobleman to peasant, after all. "I apologize. I've kept you long enough, and you seem sufficiently dry. I know you need to get to work." Straightening up, Alfred flashed Arthur a small smile, slightly tainted with the mutual sadness they still felt over Esmeralda'a passing. "If you would like, I can have a word with Mr. Bradley."

"I can take care of myself," Arthur replied somewhat snappily, without meaning to. He was just frustrated at not being able to figure out this nobleman, so different was he from the rest of the aristocracy Arthur had encountered or heard about. It unnerved the young actor a little. Plus, he was still a bit offended at all the flirting. Typical of noblemen, walking all over the lower classes and doing whatever they wanted. Well, Arthur had his pride, and it didn't like being pushed around.

"—Sir," he added. He knew he was walking a fine line, and even with the added "sir," he hadn't tried to disguise his annoyance. He might have been writing his death sentence, but if this nobleman was that different from everyone else, then Arthur was pretty sure he would be surprised by the abnormal reaction. And indeed he was.

Alfred laughed, despite the sadness in his eyes. The sound was bright and attention grabbing, no doubt an aristocrat's well practiced laugh.

"You mistake me. I have no doubt that you can," the Marquess replied, fighting the urge to reach over and ruffle that already messy blond head.

Arthur took that as his signal to leave. Taking off the ring in an obvious way, he pocketed it, both of them acknowledging the promise the actor had wordlessly made before, though it still made no sense to Arthur what that had meant. The theatre's next play, due to open in two weeks, was A Midsummer Night's Dream, in which Arthur was playing a fairy—Second Fairy, to be exact. All the other roles went to older, more experienced actors. There was no plan, as far as he knew, to do Romeo and Juliet any time soon.

Whatever. The nobleman could spout all the nonsense he wanted. It wouldn't be Arthur's problem.

Bowing, Arthur said, "Well then, Marquess, I take my leave." Arthur then turned around and headed for the door. He stopped momentarily as he heard from behind him Alfred's reply.

"It really _was_ a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur made no reply, though he lingered a bit before walking on and closing the door behind him. He didn't know how he felt toward that oddity of an aristocrat. When the man had been serious, he had looked so weary and so sad that he seemed completely human. In those moments, it really felt like they were just two men sharing a drink together. But those moments passed quickly, and Arthur had been brought back to his senses by some aristocratic quirk or other, at which point his suspicion and annoyance returned with a vengeance. His feelings were so contradicting. He had snapped at the nobleman often enough that he was sure that if it had been anyone else, Arthur would have gotten punched. Arthur had even refused the kind offer for the nobleman to put in his word to Mr. Bradley, though part of him—the less stubborn, more realistic part—wanted to have the nobleman talk to the manager. As it were, Arthur was sure that he was walking from one evil to another.

That glass of scotch had been a very good idea on the Marquess's part, Arthur would give him that.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

First real chapter! I'm so excited! This one was a bit hard to write, actually, considering how much Arthur's and Alfred's feelings flipped around as time passed. But I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Having Alfred use polite British words feels so weird, but I promise he gets more "American" as he gets more comfortable. He's overly British when he is being polite or in the face of anyone but people close to him—which basically means just his mother. For now, of course. ;]

All right, all right. I _know_ how weird "Marquess Jones" sounds, but there's an explanation. It's not his father's name; it's his mother's (who is an American). Alfred had always been closer to his mother than his father, and thus, independently took his mother's surname without his father's blessings. The two have always been a bit on edge with each other, which you'll get to see later.

And by the way, I doubt that this story would have many other Hetalia characters in it like my other one. Somehow "Victorian"-ish London doesn't seem to be as international a place as current day New York, you know? It's harder to fit them in, and if they don't fit, I won't use them. Thus, many of the names you'll see are just people I make up for the story. Hope you don't mind that.

Ages, for those of you who are wondering, works like this: Arthur is currently 22, Alfred 25. When Esmeralda died, Arthur was 19, Alfred 22. When the ring was given to Esmeralda, Arthur was 17, having just moved to the city, Alfred 20. I'm too lazy to figure out the exact timing for these events, and thus certain more accurate age differences based on birthdays and everything, so forgive me.

As always, if you find anything that you think I should improve, please let me know. Writing flip-flopping emotions is especially tough, and I hope I didn't move too fast and too unrealistically. Thus, I hope you will honor me by taking the time to point out if I did, or if I messed up anywhere else. I always worry about being unrealistic (though sometimes you can only be a certain amount of realism when writing such an AU fic). Please let me know! Your reviews and feedback, positive or negative, are what keep me going!

Oh, and as I wrote this chapter, I started to see another side of how fun this thing will be. So many Shakespeare references I get to make! And for those of you who've read On Better Terms, you know just how much I like my Shakespeare. This is going to be a blast!

So much appreciation!  
Galythia

P.S. For those of you who have read On Better Terms, I'm sorry for the short length of this chapter. I know you're used to longer ones. I just like spacing out my chapters based on... the feel of them, and it felt right to end this one here. I know I could have added more details, but I didn't want to run the risk of rambling. Forgive me!


	3. A New-Yet-Old Line of Work

_"If this were play'd upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an_  
_improbable fiction."_

- Fabian (_Twelfth Night_) -

* * *

**.: 2. A New-Yet-Old Line of Work :.**

* * *

The day after his unsettling encounter with Marquess Jones, Arthur woke up bruised and battered. It hadn't been _all _Mr. Bradley's doing—directly, at least; the director had worked them tirelessly as well, especially the part of the Second Fairy. Well, Arthur was sure _that_ had Bradley's name written all over it. The Second Fairy was just an extra, with no lines, and barely any acting, except for trailing around behind Moth and all the other more esteemed helpers of Titania. So why did Arthur have to practice his trailing walk for _three hours_ last night? Bradley was such an aggressive _and_ passive aggressive git.

With a deep breath, Arthur rolled out of bed and immediately got started with his day. Growing up on a farm taught you to wake in time to greet the sun good morning as it, too, woke up to get to work. His limbs ached, especially his legs, but he welcomed it. He knew that he had rehearsed that walk quite hard, and quite often, and no one could say that Arthur didn't try his best with _any_ task given to him. Those aches and pains meant to Arthur that he was improving and working toward a brighter future.

Arthur went to school right on time as usual. His friend returned the bike, in worse condition than it had left Arthur's charge. It was highly rare for someone of Arthur's level to own a bicycle in this day and age, but his mother had saved up all the money she could to get it for his twenty-first birthday. The actor treated it with utmost care, cleaning and polishing it every day. Once a week, he even took the small and big wheels apart from the bike and carefully investigated them for road damage as well. His bicycle was another thing he owned which he valued quite highly, aside from the ring and the few books he owned. Well, maybe he really didn't own the ring anymore; that was ambiguous ground.

Of course, with his style of dress and his obviously non-noble demeanor, the young man made for an interesting sight whenever he rode the contraption anywhere. Anyone else seen on a bicycle was usually dressed in top hat or something of a similar design, and was using the thing for pleasure, rather than as a means of getting from point A to point B. Arthur didn't really care, never having been one to be self conscious about such things. As long as it allowed him to get places faster, and thus allowed him to work longer and go to sleep earlier, everybody else could think what they wanted.

When school was over with for the day, Arthur made his usual ride to the theatre. _Marquess Jones's theatre_, Arthur remembered. Despite school and the demands on his acting, Arthur still hadn't stopped thinking about that odd aristocrat all day. Part of him—the softer part of him—felt pity for the man, who possessed so much, yet seemed so utterly unhappy at times that it was heartbreaking. The other part of him—a part much larger and more listened to—was still very suspicious of the man, and didn't want anything else to do with him. Nevertheless, because of the ring, Arthur was sure that that wouldn't be the last time he saw those winter blue eyes or heard that charming devious chuckle. One could only hope, then, that the second encounter would go better than the last.

* * *

Alfred, too, had been thinking hard on the coincidental encounter. It was so out of the ordinary in his mundane life that his mind wandered there almost constantly, voluntarily and involuntarily. That actor had been so intriguing, so utterly different than all the other members of the lower classes that Alfred had met. That rebellious look, the spunk in those eyes and the aggression of those words... no doubt Arthur hated the nobility, much like many of the lower classes did. However, Arthur was just the first to directly show it to the Marquess, which should have offended the man, but in reality, it only made the Marquess like the actor all the more. It was nice to know that Esmeralda had had someone so interesting and entertaining to keep her company in her last years of life.

The Marquess had shed his tears over Esmeralda upon arrival at home. He sat by the fireplace, long into the night, drinking wine until he had to be dragged to bed by his personal butler, Oswald. And just like Arthur, the Marquess awoke the next day to terrible pains, most of which stemmed from his aching head. Crying always gave him a headache, and the alcohol hadn't really helped his cause.

Despite his desire to dwell in bed all day, the man knew he had work to do. Being an aristocrat wasn't all fun and games as everyone else seemed to think. There were papers to check, properties to oversee, boring events to attend, and, worst of all, politics to deal with. If it weren't for the politics, Alfred would have rebelled publicly against his father long ago. But as it were, all they could do was glare daggers at each other as they acted like they were the ideal picture of father and son. There wasn't much love lost between the two.

Alfred's mother, on the other hand... Now _there_ was a perfect woman. She was the only woman Alfred had ever loved. Catherine Jones was the ideal that Alfred believed every woman should measure up to: caring, kind-hearted, sweet, and very understanding. Her bright laugh could banish thunderstorms and her gentle touch could soothe all pains. She took everything with a calm face and a strong heart. Even as nine-year-old Alfred watched his father break the news to her that they could not live together in the same house, and must actually divorce, all Catherine did was nod and tell him that she still loved him, but that she understood. He said he loved her too, of course, but she was not a noble, and was not even of England. What would the people think? To nine-year-old Alfred, such love was false love. Nothing, he believed—not even class—could get in the way of _true_ love.

It was thus that Alfred ended up living alone with his mother. After all, he was an odd duck himself, not being of completely noble blood, and thus was an embarrassment to the Harrington name. The Duke went on to search for another woman—one of higher stature this time—with whom the man could actually produce a _real_ son. But after years of searching, to no avail, the Duke of Devonshire finally accepted that Alfred was his only hope. That was when the Duke started focusing his hard efforts on his unwilling son. Every conversation they ever had was frustrating, the subject always moving, in recent times, to marriage. Such insistence would have broken anybody else, but Alfred would never forgive his father for treating his mother so terribly, abandoning her like that, even after she had moved away from her family and the world she knew all for the Duke. So what if Catherine didn't have the grace of a noble? In Alfred's eyes, it was the noblewomen who didn't have _her_ grace. His bastard of a father would not get away lightly for throwing away something so valuable.

Even when his mother had died, just a few months after Alfred's seventeenth birthday, Sir Harrington had only paid her body a visit because it was what was expected of him. The man had spoken no words at the burial, had shed no tear, and had left at the first opportunity—no doubt to return to his mistress. Alfred, on the other hand, stood in the rain at her grave far into the night, until finally, his butler had come out to retrieve him, lest he caught some dire malady.

There was a good reason why Alfred hated his father.

The Marquess groaned and sat up. He checked his pocket-watch to confirm that indeed, it was time to rise and get started with the day's work. He had a series of letters which were in dire want of replies and a letter to his father to continue, which he had been starting over again and again for the past three weeks, unable to say all that he desired to in the calm manner that was expected of him. The Marquess was busy with all types of work, but first on his list would be a trip to his playhouse. There were things he needed to discuss with Bradley—namely, the man's discharge from work.

As his butler helped Alfred dress for the morning, the old man couldn't help but notice his master's change in mood from the night before. Despite his pains, a small smile played on Alfred's lips. He would be in and out of the playhouse all day today, and though it would be for business, it wouldn't be so bad to run into one Arthur Kirkland again either, come to think of it.

* * *

When Arthur arrived at work, things were much more busy than usual. People were hurrying back and forth with stacks of paper, long ladders, buckets of tools, paint—the works. Arthur nearly got knocked over at least five times as he made his way to the general actors's holding room. Just what was going on?

As he entered the room, he could hear excited chatter from everyone. It seemed like something big had happened—something very big. And apparently, it had to do with Arthur, considering how all talking ceased to exist when everyone realized the actor in question had arrived. The young actor shifted uncomfortably under the weight of all the stares, some of which were proud and happy, others haughty, and the majority of them jealous. Arthur knew that whatever it was, he probably had that stupid Marquess to thank. _Here he goes again, messing with my life, the bastard._

"Uh... hello, everybody..." Arthur started, eyes averted to the ground. The least someone could do was tell him what was going on.

"Huh, I don't care," one of the older actors said, turning his nose and going back to whatever it is that he was working on. A few other seasoned actors nodded their heads and murmured some sort of snobbish consent.

"He's not particularly special" or "What do they see in him?" were snippets of what Arthur could hear. His cheeks flushed, half in embarrassment, half in anger, and all in frustration of his ignorance at what was going on. He knew that he was young, and that he still had a long way to go before reaching any leading role calibre, but the least they could do was not tell that to his face—especially when Arthur was still left in the dark. But the acting business had never been one of kindness. Only those who competed, played dirty, and fought hard got the best roles, and this certain Second Fairy was just too polite and well-raised to stoop down to that level.

The young actor glanced around, looking for any sign of what all this hostility was about. His eyes finally settled on a freckled face that was practically beaming at him, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up. William. Thank god for William, his only real friend at the theatre.

Arthur made his way over to William very quietly, amidst the stares and the general silence. A couple people harrumphed and went back to what they were doing, and gradually, people stopped looking at Arthur as he shuffled over to William, trying to hold his head up high. Honestly, he just wanted to punch one of their arrogant faces right in the nose and see how entitled they would be then.

"Congratulations!" William blurted out, unable to hold his silence anymore. The few other people who had gathered around Arthur also enthusiastically spoke similar phrases of good wishes. With their looks of awe and excitement, you would think that Arthur was getting married to the Queen herself or engaging in something equally grand and utterly rare.

"I can't believe you did it, you sly dog!" William continued after the general first round of congrats had died down. "Though I think we'll finally have to do something about those eyebrows," the freckled red-head added, wiggling his own for emphasis.

Arthur blushed, his anger temporarily diluted. The young actor ran a hand sheepishly through his messy hair. "Thanks... Err... What for, exactly?"

William's eyes widened, but his surprised expression quickly turned mirthful. He laughed loudly as he clapped Arthur on the shoulder.

"That's so like you, Arturo," William commented after wiping his tears away, dropping one of the many nicknames he had for his fellow actor. "Here," he said, handing Arthur a sheet of paper the young actor recognized immediately to be an announcement sheet. These came out only when new plays were started, generally to let everyone know what said play was and how the roles were assigned.

The bushy-browed actor tentatively glanced over the sheet, suspecting that he already knew what it would say. Sure enough, that promise he said last night made a whole lot more sense now. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ would be scrapped, and they would open with _Romeo and Juliet_ in _three days_. That wasn't unheard of—it was quite a common occurrence, actually—and Arthur had done it before, but never as leading lady.

_That self-righteous pissant! _Arthur was livid and excited at the same time. No doubt this was the break he had been waiting for, but it was way too sudden. Plus, the way in which the nobleman had gone about it couldn't have made Arthur dislike him more. The actor hated how the nobility threw their weight around and played with the lives of the lower class as if they were gods. Albeit, it was a nice turn of events; but nevertheless, Marquess Jones had no right. If they met again—_when _they met again—Arthur vowed to give the Marquess a piece of his mind—albeit in a polite way befitting a disgruntled lower class citizen addressing an aristocrat. But still, Alfred Jones would know.

Arthur kept glancing around warily as he got ready for their first rehearsal. In light of this new development, Arthur had finally entered into the professional realm. It was exciting, but terrifying as well. Things would be cutthroat from here on out, and whatever passive animosity the actor received before would evolve into blatant hatred soon enough. Jealousy would run high, and trickery would be afoot. In that respect, the Marquess had selfishly done Arthur a big disfavor. The actor wasn't sure if he hated the man of if he should thank the man. Either way, the next time they met was bound to be an interesting affair.

* * *

Alfred had left the house early that morning, taking his carriage straight to the playhouse. No doubt Bradley would already be there, getting ready for another average day of his repetitive work life. Well, the Marquess was all too glad to bring a surprise to knock some reality back into the man. Bradley had to remember that he worked for Alfred F. Jones, who indeed was a noble, but one completely opposite from his father. Bradley had worked here from before Alfred took over ownership of the theatre from the Duke, and thus it was understandable that the man would still be stuck in the old ways of running things. Alfred usually turned a blind eye, but Arthur Kirkland was a different matter. The young actor was just too interesting to be hurt.

And really, the reason was as simple as that. Alfred was an aristocrat with money who was bored with his life and wanted desperately to escape the problems such riches presented him—and Arthur was his latest project. It had been just so good an opportunity to pass by, and since Arthur was an acquaintance of Esmeralda's, Alfred could be one hundred percent sure that his intrigue was not unwarranted. And if Bradley was going to interfere with Alfred's hobbies, then the man would be removed.

... Which is exactly what happened. The Marquess had waltzed into the office, his light aristocrat smile playing on his lips, and immediately informed Bradley that he was to immediately remove himself from the premises. The manager, of course, was shocked, but complied silently after some hesitation. After all, what could he say to such a powerful noble?

The Marquess then swept back out of the office with a commanding air equal to the one with which he had entered just moments before. With that done, he then went to inform the director, Mr. Lewis, of the new play. Last evening, during their enlightening conversation, the thought had just struck the Marquess that Arthur would make an amusing Juliet. Alfred had never been able to witness much of the young actor's skills, since Arthur rarely ever had a speaking role, and thus, the Marquess didnt have much hope that such a role would actually be done well. But Arthur had looked nice in a dress as a background member in _All's Well That Ends Well_, and _Romeo and Juliet_ was a personal favorite of the Marquess. The answer seemed obvious; the whim struck, and he acted on it. Alfred had never been a complicated person, after all. And the nice thing about having money was that people listened to your whims and obeyed your every command.

Lewis didn't even let out one word or protest about the change, though Alfred could see it in the man's eyes. Alfred felt some remorse somewhere in his heart at using his power for such whims, but it wasn't like he had asked for this life with a dead mother, a father who hated him, and people watching his every move. He could trust no one, and with his preferences, he could really love no one either. So the least he could do was enjoy whatever parts of life he could. That's what being an aristocrat meant, right?

Alfred left to attend to other business for the rest of the day. He arranged for some renovations to happen to his theatre, which he had honestly been neglecting for a while now, too caught up in other matters. But now it would become a place grand, royal, and befitting of the Harrington name. Though in Alfred's heart, it would really be made to befit the Jones name; his mother had always loved the theatre, after all, which was one of the reasons why Alfred himself was so attached as well.

When it came to be around three in the afternoon, the Marquess made his way back to the playhouse. He wanted to oversee the changes personally, to make sure that things got done how he wanted them done. The working class was never that intelligent. That wasn't arrogance; it was just _fact. _They were so utterly subservient sometimes that it was almost laughable—well, almost all of them were. There was a reason that Arthur Kirkland had the Marquess's attention, after all. The ring and the encounter might have initially caught it, but the actor himself was what held it.

When Lewis informed the Marquess that it was about time to start rehearsal, Alfred decided to stay. He wanted to see for himself just what this rebellious free spirited actor could do. Considering Arthur had been hiding in the back this whole time, he was probably of mediocre skill. Nevertheless, theatre was one of the few places that Alfred could go to freely see men in dresses, and he was very much looking forward to the sight of Arthur Kirkland in one on opening night. If there was good acting to go with it, then all the better.

Owning a playhouse definitely had its benefits.

* * *

The young actor walked with William to the main theatre for rehearsal, fidgeting the whole way. Even disregarding his apprehension for any jealousy-induced fowl play, this was Arthur's first big role, and it was the _main_ role. He had moved awfully fast from Second Fairy to Juliet Capulet. And, of course, there was no way he could have come from school prepared for such a development. What if he was terrible at it, and everyone laughed? Arthur would no doubt try hard, but there was only so much one could make up in effort for what one lacked in skill or practice. _I should have practiced that walk for two more hours yesterday_, Arthur thought, knowing that practice—any practice—would have further improved his acting, which felt so lacking now in the face of such an important role.

When they got to the main hall, rehearsal immediately started, and the director, obviously grumpy about the scrapping of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, decided to head right into the one of the most difficult scenes: Juliet on her balcony. Arthur hadn't even had a chance to look to see who was Romeo yet, so excited and apprehensive had he been when he had found out the news initially.

Arthur climbed up on the chair, their makeshift balcony for rehearsal purposes, and swallowed nervously. Some of his coworkers weren't even trying to disguise their dirty looks as they sneered up at Arthur, arms crossed, just _waiting _for the young actor to screw up. Arthur's stomach curdled. He was waiting for himself to fumble too. His stomach had seldom felt this queasy up on stage before.

... And it didn't feel any better when a platinum blond head detached himself from the watching crowd to step up as Romeo. Arthur's eyes widened imperceptibly. Gilbert Beilschmidt. That damn German-born London-raised bastard had it out for Arthur. He was the worst of them, having vehemently hated and tormented Arthur even before he received this role—and for no reason, as far as the young actor could tell.

Gilbert sneered up at Arthur and uttered a challenge. "You ready, puss?"

Arthur really would have replied with something relatively witty had his attention not suddenly shoot past the to a blonde head up in the balcony. That smooth smile on that handsome face, which was resting so laxly on the man's left hand... It was unmistakable. And just to confirm, the director stood up to make his pre-rehearsal announcements.

"Now, I know you're all surprised and probably confused, so let me explain," he started, waving his hand about the commotion all around, where people were fixing old paint, rebuilding balcony seating, and going about a great variety of other renovation projects. "The great Marquess Jones has taken an even greater interest in this theatre, and is investing in its improvement. As you all have probably guessed, this renovated theatre's first play will be none other than _Romeo and Juliet_, one of the Marquess's personal favorites. In fact, the Marquess himself will be overseeing this first rehearsal to ensure of the play's success." With a flourish of the hand, the director then gestured up to the central balcony above, where Arthur's eyes were already trained.

Everyone turned around with some surprised murmurs. They all immediately bowed to show their respect—well, all except Arthur, who was busy making direct eye contact with the man instead. The actor's eyes narrowed imperceptibly in a challenge as his polite side finally relented and he bowed down ever so slightly—though not nearly deeply enough for it to be considered satisfactory by any standard. The young actor wasn't standing on this chair to pay his respects to some aristocrat, after all. He was here to _perform_, and God damn it, he would show that smug bastard that Arthur Kirkland's life was not one to be messed with. Social norms could wait.

Thus, with newfound confidence, induced by stubborn resistance, Arthur turned back to Gilbert and was able to smiled confidently as he said, "I won't even have to try."

With those announcements having been made, the Lewis then set right into the scene, straight from the top. With vigor, Arthur delivered his lines beautifully and without hesitation, having memorized all of Romeo and Juliet before he even started at acting school, despite having seen it only twice as a treat from his parents when they went into the city. His knack for memorizing things quickly might have been one of the reasons Arthur started thinking about acting, actually, considering how much he constantly rattled off Shakespeare to his parents as he went about his daily farm chores. It was his mother that finally instilled the idea in him to head to an acting school. And it paid off, considering the performance that Arthur was giving on that chair. Even Gilbert was surprised.

When the scene was done, everyone fell silent. It had been beautiful—terrifyingly beautiful, because everyone realized that Arthur actually had skill. A lot of it. He just needed to put his mind to it, and there it would be, shining out from under all of that grumpy shyness. The young actor might have even deserved the role of Juliet, and that idea startled many of the troupe members.

Arthur could sense the Marquess's keen attention from the balcony, and sure enough, such a notion was confirmed by some clapping from above, which broke the silence.

"Mister Lewis," Marquess Jones's completely British voice rang out. "I am now _positive_ that this production will be utterly spectacular."

The director turned around, pulled out of his shock, and stammered out some thanks, bowing down once again. He was still a bit bemused as to where this new side of Arthur Kirkland came from. That performance left very little wanting. Honestly, at this rate, they could definitely put on _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ simultaneously—something which Lewis himself had been worried his motley troupe wouldn't be able to pull off, despite the fact that most other theatres held at least four or five simultaneously each week.

Gilbert had done a stunning job, too, for that matter. There was definitely something between the two actors that set the stage on fire, and Lewis didn't care if it was hatred, love, jealousy, sadness—whatever. They could use it—they _would _use it—and they would become the subject of all conversations in London. Lewis could already see it._  
_

"Right, boys, let's get to work!" Lewis exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Such a performance was inspiring, and the presence of the ever watchful Marquess also helped to raise the bar as well. Everyone set to work enthusiastically and worked very hard. They had to live up to that first performance and impress the Marquess—for who knew, a promotion of some sort might be a possibility, and no one would willingly concede it to a boy so green as Arthur Kirkland.

* * *

When Arthur finished acting the last scene of the day, coincidentally also his last scene of the play, he was exhausted. But he was happy. He had acted to the best of his ability, to a level which he hadn't even thought achievable before today. It was highly exciting to discover that he was capable of so much more than he had thought before—not to mention it was satisfying to see Gilbert's surprised face. That was priceless.

And even Gilbert, so inspired by the Marquess's presence and Arthur's sudden grace, had done a spectacular job. So spectacular, in fact, that he was too tired to toss something sarcastic in Arthur's way after that last scene. It was good to know that when it came down to it, the two of them could put their differences aside and throw themselves into the part, forgetting Gilbert and Arthur altogether. All that existed was Romeo and his love, Juliet, and that was what mattered.

Arthur looked up to the balcony to gauge the Marquess's reaction. He had been periodically glancing up there toward the beginning of the rehearsal, but as he got more into his role and more focused on interaction, the Marquess was forgotten. And now, Arthur saw, he had missed the chance to gauge a reaction, since that chair was oddly vacated. The Marquess had slipped out somewhere in the excitement, and now all that was left to mark his presence was actually a great lack thereof.

The young actor couldn't help but feel disappointed. He had wanted to see that smug expression fall to surprise at the realization that whatever dastardly plan the Marquess had had failed. Arthur had done well, surprisingly well, which was probably the exact opposite of what the Marquess expected. _That should show him_, the actor thought smugly, as he turned away and averted his attention back to preparations to head home for the day.

* * *

Arthur's thoughts had been right. Alfred had indeed been surprised, and pleasantly so. The Marquess had honestly expected a mediocre at best performance on the first rehearsal, especially from someone who had never played such a large role in his life—as far as Alfred knew, from Lewis's reaction when the Marquess had requested—well, _demanded_—specifically that Arthur be given the role of Juliet. But this new development just made the Marquess all the more intrigued in his hapless toy of an actor. Alfred had forgotten just how interesting theatre could be. What a coincidence that he had been walking through that area yesterday! The Marquess rarely found himself journeying outdoors on foot, but thank whatever god there was up there for the fact that one of the carriage wheels needed repairing. Life sure had a way of cheering him up when he needed it.

It was thus, with a beaming smile, that Alfred left from the theatre. He wanted to save seeing Arthur's momentous last scene for opening night, and, of course, he knew he had to return back to the real world someday. That letter to his father was still left half-written on his table, and he still had ball invitations to... decline. As far as the rest of society knew, Marquess Jones was indisposed at the moment to some sickness, and would recover within a few days. It gave him enough of a rest from the cloying hands of various women in whom he had no interest before he had to journey back and deal with marriage prospects again.

Alfred often wished he had been born in an alternate universe, into a life lived under less prying eyes and governed by laxer rules.

* * *

For every rehearsal for the rest of the week, the Marquess made his presence known. He always watched with an amused expression, face resting lazily on his hand, passive eyes trained on the commotion below. The troupe had changed quite a bit since the Marquess had actually last been here to watch attentively, four years ago. Obviously, Arthur was a new addition, but so was Gilbert, the Romeo. Those two seemed to have it out for each other, and that was so very interesting to see. It was good for the production, though, since it made them both work harder to show up the other. Alfred congratulated himself on a job well done with casting, though there was no way he could have known beforehand. _Call it an aristocrat's intuition_, the man thought smugly.

Arthur was experiencing a similar feeling of pride as well. This acting was incredibly taxing, and incredibly hard, especially when he had to get so uncomfortably close to Gilbert sometimes, but it was also liberating. It was the greatest feeling in the world to know that he _could_ take on such a big role, and it unlocked this new side to him which he could explore and delve into with zeal. Of course, this was all his _own_ doing; that aristocrat had set a nice trap, but Arthur had overcome it. Arthur didn't believe that the man had meant for it to be an opportunity, and thus, wouldn't give him that credit. No noble was that nice. Arthur thought it was evidence that he had been pretty successful at outwitting the Marquess when the man always disappeared before rehearsal ended. It was a sign of defeat on the Marquess's part, and it only motivated Arthur to do even better the next day.

When opening day arrived, everyone was abuzz with excitement. Of course, the theatre had been in constant action with renovations and rehearsals ever since the announcement of _Romeo and Juliet_, and then further kicked into gear when Lewis decided that _A Midsummer Night's Dream _was also within their grasp. Thus, this first night would actually be a two part act, in celebration of the new decor. The Marquess had invited many of his noble acquaintances, deeming that he had avoided them for long enough. If he had to play the political game, he'd at least choose the battlefield.

Arthur was busy running around, finding all the parts to his costume. That arrogant Marquess had deemed that these two plays be utmost spectacular, and thus, there would be fireworks, smoke, brilliant costumes and all. Even Arthur's Second Fairy dress was changed to a teal one with gold embroidered leaves and flowers, startlingly different from the plain blue one before. He had a circlet for Juliet, along with a dress that actually required a hoop skirt and corset, considering Lewis was planning on giving the audience a nice impression of bosom as well. Usually, Arthur would have been utterly humiliated and embarrassed, but honestly, he had been on such an acting streak that nothing would bring him down. He actually could do this. He could play Juliet! And by God he would do it so well that it'd be the equivalent of punching that smug bastard of a Marquess right in the face. No one would get the satisfaction of successfully messing with Arthur Kirkland.

Thus, it was with such a mindset that the young actor got ready for his first appearance on stage. Second Fairy first, Juliet second. They were going to end the night with the nobles standing up in applause; Arthur was sure of it.

The first play passed by in a blur for both the actors and the audience, whose eyes were watery and stomachs were aching from the raucous laughter. A Midsummer Night's Dream never failed to please a crowd with its witty puns and clever plot.

But all the actors knew that_ A Midsummer Night's Dream_ had just been there to butter up the crowd. Nothing would prepare the audience for the miracle on stage that was the troupe's _Romeo and Juliet_. No one would deny at this point―although some  
grudgingly so―that the casting choices had been spot on. They would be the talk of the city by the end of the night.

When Arthur took to the stage as Juliet for the first time, in Act I Scene III, all talking stopped for a brief moment; then everyone broke into excited murmurs. The young actor had some sort of stage presence that was so differentiated from everyone else that all attention turned to him. Even Alfred had stopped talking mid-sentence. He hadn't seen that dress before, let alone Arthur made up and wearing it...

"Is that... Is he really male...?" the Earl of Westerholme asked. If Alfred didn't know any better, he would have said no. It was impossibly hard to tell. They had put a blonde wig on him, done it up, put makeup on his face, filled out his chest, gave his body some nonexistent curves... The effect was completely mystifying. Now there was a woman Alfred himself thought he could have fallen in love with just by looks.

"... Yes. He's especially brilliant, don't you think?" Alfred let the pride shine through in his voice; it had been his idea, after all. And though when he had initially thought of it, he hadn't expected it to be any good or go anywhere—though no one else needed to know. He had been bored and playing around with his latest interest, but such whims now became so much more. Arthur would be the subject of other jealous playhouse owners for weeks to come. Oh, this was so much better than expected!

"He's... Shining," the Earl replied, smiling a little at the double meaning of Arthur in the stage light. "Where did you find him? I have yet to see him before, I should think."

Alfred chuckled. "He has been here for a while, actually. But he's of the wallflower sort." With a proud twinkle in his eye, Alfred finished, "I just gave him the push he needed."

"Well, then. I commend you for your good judgment, Mister Jones." The Earl of Westerholme replied, being one of the few who used Alfred's chosen name.

"You give me too much credit," Alfred replied. To anyone, it would be the expected humble statement, though Alfred knew he was telling the truth. This had been nothing more than a whim at the beginning, and this experience wasn't teaching him to listen to his whims any less. Maybe his heart really knew better what to do than his mind did. Whatever it was, it worked.

With that reassuring thought pride beaming from his heart―though honestly, it was really Arthur that was doing all the work, but Alfred refused to believe that―the Marquess leaned back to watch.

By the time the lovers' death scene came along, everyone was leaning forward in anticipation. Usually, playhouse audiences were very participatory, even a crowd of only nobles and the higher class, but tonight, things were pin drop silent. Romeo had died, and now, all was left was for Juliet to take her own heart―and steal the hearts of all the audience in the same sweep as well.

Arthur took his time on stage. Faking tears wasn't easy, and it usually involved imagining his parents dead, which took time―especially when he was so happy at such a successful performance so far. He had only fumbled three times, and either the audience hadn't noticed it, or chose to ignore it for the purpose of seeing the bigger picture. Opening night was going very well. So well, in fact, that Arthur thought Marquess Jones much be cursing his own stupidity now at thinking he could entrap the young actor. Although Arthur felt that they had shared something over their mutual acquaintance of Esmeralda, that was about as far as commonalities went. Alfred was still a creepy bastard who was made all the more evil in Arthur's mind by how different he was from the other aristocrats. Whatever game the Marquess was playing, Arthur would have none of it.

He picked up the fake dagger, slowly entwining his words with all the misery in the world. This was it. This was the moment when all would either be lost or won.

Holding the up the dagger, Arthur made sure Esmeralda's ring glistened in the lantern light. He wanted the Marquess to see that he hadn't broken his promise, and from afar, no one could tell that it was a real sapphire anyways.

Arthur wailed, "O happy dagger! This is thy sheath!" And with one fell swoop, he mimicked so strong a stabbing motion that it elicited a unanimous gasp from the aristocratic crowd. Even Alfred stood up a little from his seat, anxiety written all over his face. The fake pig's blood looked so real, staining that gorgeous gown. Usually, fake blood wasn't part of the act, but Alfred had wanted the first night to be spectacular; redoing the dress was a trivial matter. It had seemed like a wonderful idea, and it still was one—but it was just terrifying to watch as well.

With his last 'dying' breath, Arthur made direct eye contact with Marquess Jones, whom he had sought out from backstage before. From the angle, it would seem to everyone else that he was merely gazing at the sky. Juliet gasped out, "There rust... and let me... die."

All was silent for a couple seconds before the crowd erupted in cheer. No one seemed to care that the play was actually not yet over. There was still one last scene with the two families, but everybody in the audience was sure that nothing could top what they had just seen. The Earl of Westerholme clapped Alfred on the back, congratulating him for a spectacular evening.

Gesturing to the crowd, the Earl commented, "Surely such a ruckus has not been heard in all of England for quite some time, Mister Jones."

"Oh how you exaggerate, Brentford," Alfred replied, humble, but nevertheless beaming with pride. This hadn't even been part of the plan, which made it all the more rewarding to see. Arthur had helped Alfred so much, and the actor didn't even know it.

"I only deign to speak the truth."

"Then I give you thanks for your skewed world-views."

"I daresay, dear Marquess, I take offense!" the Earl, Charles Brentford, replied, trying to speak in all seriousness, despite the light in his eyes.

Alfred chuckled. "Well, then, it is my lucky day, for the Lord knows I've only ever beaten you in defense," the Marquess shot back, referencing their famed fencing matches, in which Alfred only won if the Earl ever got too zealous in his attacks—which was usually the case. The Marquess rarely enjoyed witty repartee, but Charles Brentford was an exception. If only there were more nobles like the Earl; the world would be a much gentler place.

The rest of the play passed quickly, with the final applaud being not nearly as equal to the one Arthur had received before in his final scene. Gilbert and Arthur had really been the stars of the show, and it delighted Alfred to no end that his new reliever of boredom would be so much more interesting than expected. _So_ interesting, in fact, that a devious idea had started to form in Alfred's mind from the moment Arthur stepped on stage that night in Juliet's dress. He would have to speak with Arthur before the night was up.

The Marquess finally managed to detach himself from the crowd of aristocrats swarming up to congratulate him after the play was over, and he made his way back to the actor's quarters, hoping that Arthur would not have departed already. The Marquess spotted the blond head amidst a group of friends who seemed to be commenting energetically on his job well done. _Bull's-eye_.

Marquess Jones brought silence in his wake as he approached the messy blond head. Arthur eventually looked up when he realized that all was quiet around him, and happy green eyes immediately met amused blue ones.

"Marquess Jones," Arthur murmured, bowing low this time. It wouldn't do for everyone else to notice his insolence—or the fact that he and the Marquess had more in common than was usual.

"Mister Kirkland," Alfred replied, tipping his head. "I came to personally congratulate you—and the rest—on a job well done. Truly, this play was a brilliant sun amongst stars."

Arthur noted that the full British accent was back on. Maybe he had just imagined the other accent before...  
The actor nodded and bowed, replying, "I thank you for taking the time out of your no doubt busy schedule to personally attend, Marquess." The slight edge to his words was not lost on the Marquess, though it might have bypassed everyone else's ears, for they were still sort of staring in awe that the Marquess was here, in the flesh, holding conversation with one of the actors. No matter what the play had been before, the Marquess usually either left right after, or hung around only long enough for it to be deemed socially acceptable, and only then with a crowd of aristocrats as company.

"It was my _pleasure_, Mr. Kirkland," the Marquess reassured, his amused smile never leaving his face. "Now if you so please, I would like to invite you and Mr. Beilschmidt to share a drink with me right now, in celebration of such a dazzling opening night."_  
_

Arthur grimaced inwardly. He could already hear some of the jealous murmurs going around. Just what was this Marquess thinking, making all his fellow actors enemies so quickly? Arthur expected to come into work and get tarred and feathered tomorrow, considering how this was playing out. Arthur could hear some of them whisper about how they _knew _this play had been some sort of test. There would be no reason the Marquess would have taken time to show up at every rehearsal otherwise.

Gilbert, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed. He had been standing nearby, and had perked up his ears to overhear just like everyone else when the Marquess had arrived. At the mention of his name, Gilbert was right on the scene, bowing down to the Marquess. "I would be honored to accept, Marquess," came his fast reply. _Always eager to latch his talons onto an opportunity,_ Arthur thought darkly. He knew he had no choice but to say the same as well, however. No one could deny people with money and a title.

"Wonderful!" Alfred replied. "I shall be in the west drawing room in a few minutes. Please make your way there when you can."

With a swish of his jacket, Marquess Jones turned and made his way out of the room, leaving everyone in excited and jealous whispers. Arthur wanted to punch a wall, so frustrated was he. How did the Marquess manage to turn such a good night so sour in one phrase? The last thing the actor wanted was to spend time with the man who had betrayed Esmeralda and then thought it fitting to screw with Arthur's life. This sapphire ring, still on his finger, was becoming more of a burden than Arthur ever wanted it to be.

* * *

Gilbert sauntered ahead of the two as they made their way to the room, which was a different one from Arthur's last encounter. William had wished Arthur the best of luck, giving his signature thumbs up gesture. Arthur had made his way past a lot of glares of hatred, which he wish he could ignore, but he simply wasn't that strong of a direct fighter, and who knew when they would gang up on him?

"Come in," Marquess Jones's voice called, muffled from the inside.

Gilbert marched in with pride as Arthur sulkingly followed; the young actor was still annoyed with the Marquess for turning such a good night into one of apprehension and worry. Arthur should have been out with William, studying for school tomorrow, working one of his other odd jobs, or writing a letter to his parents—anything but being here 'celebrating' with the Marquess and _Beilschmidt_. Arthur thought he had outshone his fellow actor, so what in the name of the devil were they _both_ doing there?

Unbeknownst to Arthur, Alfred was thinking the same thing as he watched the two of them enter. Gilbert had acted brilliantly, no doubt, but Arthur had cast some sort of otherworldly magic upon the crowd, the likes of which no one had seen from the young actor before. Arthur Kirkland had been something else entirely.

But it wouldn't do for Alfred to invite one lead and not the other. People would talk. And though the Marquess personally didn't care, being a successful aristocrat did lend him the money and power to do what he wanted—and it also lent him the playhouse to now _see_ what he wanted. Thus, as it was, Marquess Jones had already ran enough risks by not inviting Tybalt, Mercutio, and the rest of the main crew. But getting rid of one man—especially one so intent on furthering his own career—would be hard enough as it was.

"Again, I thank you profusely for the honor you bestowed upon us, Marquess Jones," Gilbert spoke, bowing deeply. Alfred fought the urge to roll his eyes; just another person who wanted something from him. Arthur Kirkland, on the other hand, seemed so wholly uncomfortable as he too lent his greetings that Alfred wanted to burst out laughing with amusement. When somebody of the lower class played hard to get—which was practically _never_ in the face of a noble, let alone the Marquess of Devonshire—Alfred just couldn't resist.

"It is my pleasure," Alfred reassured them, getting up to pour two more glasses of wine. He handed it to both of them one at a time, keenly judging their reactions. Gilbert looked at the glass as if it were pure gold—after all, the Marquess had just poured that _himself_. Arthur, on the other hand, held the same regard toward the wine as he had held to the scotch four days prior; that is to say that he would have gladly let it drop had that not been a social taboo.

"Please, take a seat," Alfred intoned, gesturing to two more arm chairs on opposite sides from where he had been sitting before, reading the paper. "You two performed wonderfully tonight. I could not have hoped for a better opening night."

The Marquess took a careful, slow sip of his wine as he received their thank yous, loud and meaningless from Gilbert, barely audible and so utterly full of a different sort of meaning from Arthur.

"You both did _so well_, in fact"—Gilbert sat up even straighter in his seat, the perfect image of a good lower class citizen listening to his superiors, which made Alfred tire of more eve more—"that I've deemed it fitting to raise your pay."

As Alfred said these last words, his eyes fell upon Arthur, who was sitting with naturally perfect posture and was observing his wine glass with intense concentration. The Marquess had the satisfaction of seeing Arthur's eyes widen. So his hunch _had_ been right; Arthur needed the money. The Marquess had been somewhat unsure because Arthur had never sold that utterly priceless ring, even after all this time. Then again, a theatre wage wasn't nearly enough to live a comfortable life. The Marquess's respect for the actor rose considerably, now that he knew Arthur had treasured the ring so much that he had not parted with it, even in hard times.

It was at this moment that Alfred decided to go through with his plan, the one that had been forming all night ever since Juliet stepped on stage. It wasn't really a plan, actually, but he had thought about it too much for it to be merely whim. The actor's skill had been surprisingly good, and very convincing... And that might just be what Alfred needed.

"I shall not fail your vote of confidence, Marquess," Gilbert replied, the happiness—and some sort of satisfaction and entitlement—evident in his voice. His bow was deep into knee level. He then straightened up and finished his wine with a flourish, clearly having _expected_ something like this to happen. He was exuding a conflicting aura of trying to be humble, when in reality, he made the Devil Duke of Devonshire look like the Angel of Humility in Arthur's eyes. Much of their mutual hatred for each other stemmed from their fundamental differences, Arthur guessed.

"I am sure you shall not, Mr. Beilschmidt. Mr. Lewis has told me much about your prowess on stage, and though I regret to say that I haven't been present much in this theatre in recent years, I did get the pleasure to see you once as the Duke of Florence in _All's Well that Ends Well._ It was brilliant."

Gilbert was brimiming with pride. Arthur grimaced. First of all, weren't they here to talk about _tonight's_ play? Second of all, it hadn't been Arthur's fault that he had been an extra in _All's Well that Ends Well_, and he thought he had done a spectacular job with what responsibilities he actually had, thank you enough. It irked him to see Gilbert praised so, partly because the guy's ego didn't need it, and partly because Arthur thought he deserved some of the conversation too. An aristocrat's praise meant crap to the young actor, but the least Alfred could do after screwing so much with Arthur's life was concede him _something._ It was what _polite_ conniving pissant of an aristocrat would do, at least.

"Now, Mr. Kirkland, on the other hand..." the aristocrat began, still talking to Gilbert. "I didn't notice him at all in that play." The blond actor in question took a loud sip of his wine, that being the most he could interject without it being deemed impolite. The Marquess had just been complimenting him before, so what brought the change of heart? And why was he saying this to Gilbert, of all people? Arthur didn't miss the sly glance the German had sent his way after the Marquess had spoken.

"I'm sure it was just the luck of the draw," Gilbert replied, though it was clear to all in the room that that wasn't his real meaning.

"Indeed... This is actually the reason that I must speak to him alone," the Marquess continued, the perfect expression on concern on his face, when in reality, he just wanted to be rid of this boring fool of an actor as fast as possible. "There are some mistakes that I would like to cover with Mr. Kirkland before the night is up, in hopes of an even spectacular performance tomorrow. Would you mind...?"

Gilbert jumped up from his chair immediately, in an effort to show the Marquess just _how much_ he did not mind that Arthur's arse got served to him.

"Not at all, Marquess," Gilbert replied, smirking at Arthur's obviously livid and embarrassed red face. "Again, I thank you for your kind considerations." With a satisfied schadenfreude wink thrown at Arthur, the German actor took his leave.

The moment the door closed, Arthur himself stood up. He honestly had enough of this.

Bowing down ever so slightly, Arthur requested, steel in his voice, "If I may, Marquess—"

"You may not." Arthur glanced back up, making direct contact with those amused icy blue eyes, temporarily forgetting social customs.

"... Why, _sir_?"

"You heard me, did you not?" Alfred replied, his accent fully British. "I have matters to discuss with you regarding tonight's performance—mainly, _your_ performance."

Arthur straightened up, but remained standing. This Marquess! Honestly! What was there to be amused about in this situation? Arthur didn't even care about the aristocrat's praise anymore, for any reason; all he wanted was to leave.

"Forgive me, sir, but I think I already know all which you could say," Arthur shot back, more insolent than he had meant; then again, this specific aristocrat bugged him more than most others, so there seemed to be a good reason for it. Plus, he knew what mistakes he had made, and he knew how to fix them. He didn't need some aristocrat to tell him that, especially under the pretense of 'celebration.'

"And I assure you that you do not," Alfred said, trying to be serious, even though his eyes twinkled with some great mischief. "Now _please_ take a seat." That wasn't a request, based on tone.

Arthur found himself sitting before he even knew what he was doing. Marquess Jones had the aristocratic superior tone down, Arthur would give him that. But Arthur refused to give in any further, even if part of him was curious as to what the Marquess would critique. Maybe Arthur had missed something... Either way, he wouldn't _ask_. And thus, they sat there in silence for a good five minutes, Arthur stubbornly refusing to say something, trying to hide that as 'respect for his superiors,' while Alfred watched the actor with observant eyes.

Finally, Alfred burst out laughing. "Oh, I wish I had a mirror so you could see your face!" The Marquess cried out in mirth, the American tinge slipping back into his words.

Arthur blinked in surprise, but he quickly recovered, now even more angry than before. But at least he hadn't been crazy enough to have imagined the curious accent last time.

"I'm glad that my expressions can provide such entertainment for you, Marquess," Arthur replied, tone laced with steel. _After all, it's all you think my face _should _do, isn't it_?

"Come now, Arthur,"—begrudgingly Arthur appreciated that the Marquess had remembered his request to be called by first name—"Don't be like that. A frown does not suit you."

"And you know me so well, sir?" The insolence just wouldn't end tonight once it started. Arthur usually could curb his sour feelings for the nobility, but this Marquess made it exceedingly impossible, and the young actor was far too tired tonight to care. Maybe such a rebellious display would even turn the Marquess off from playing with Arthur further.

Arthur could only hope.

"I do not propose to know you at all, actually, except for what I can see from your acting..."

"Which you find wanting," Arthur finished, his tone more bitter than intended. _He_ had thought he had done pretty well, after all. He thought he had done so well that he had foiled all of the Marquess's devious traps, and it stung like a viper's venom to find out he had been wrong.

Alfred was silent for a while, deep in thought about his plans for Arthur. It would solve all of his current problems, that was for sure. And with the sum of money that the Marquess had at hand, it might even solve a great many of Arthur's problems as well, if only they managed to work well together. But that hurdle could be approached when it arrived. And if the plan failed miserably, well, at least Alfred had fun doing it, eh? What was life with money if you didn't use it to enjoy it while you could? The Marquess had never planned on living long as it was. Old life, alone, didn't suit him well, and he had no high hopes of ever finding a wife, much to his father's anger and disappointment.

Thus, the plan seemed as good a one as any. Life was about surprises, whims, fancies, and faith. You threw caution to the wind, and usually, the wind carries you something good in return. That was what happened with Alfred's casting choice for _Romeo and Juliet_, so what was to say that that couldn't happen with his latest casting choice now?

Finally, Arthur broke the silence, exasperated and tired. "Pardon me, sir, but I—"

"_You have witchcraft in your lips,_" the nobleman spoke in a surprisingly quiet voice. Those blue eyes had never strayed from Arthur's face, and Alfred was thankful for that, considering he got to see Arthur's surprised stop mid-sentence. Of all the things the young actor had expected, he did not see a quote from _Henry V_ coming his way, especially one from a passionate speech of _love_. And for some stupid reason, the combination of that smooth sharp jawline, those calm, bewitching eyes, and that lopsided smile on slightly parted lips made Arthur stammer out his confusion.

"W-what?" Arthur blinked. "Sir," he added quickly, as a vague afterthought, out of habit.

The nobleman chuckled, his expression emitting a lazy amusement. "Surely you recognize the quote," Alfred commented.

"... Of course," Arthur replied, still somewhat surprised at the fast turn of events and the quick change in his own mood. His anger had somehow been temporarily erased by the weight of those words and the way they were said. Now if there was anyone between the two of them that had witchcraft in their lips, it would surely be the Marquess. "Henry the fifth, act five, scene two. Speech to Catherine." He was far too lost in the conversation to even remember formalities this time. The Marquess didn't really notice either._  
_

"Ah, here we have a learned fellow!"

"... But Marquess, I still don't understand what you mean," Arthur replied, utterly bypassing the compliment, if it really was one in the first place. He was just confused for the moment, and his mind paid little heed to anything else but an answer.

Alfred sat up. "What I mean, Arthur, is that you played the most beautiful Juliet I have ever laid eyes upon."

Arthur blinked. Taking another sip of wine seemed like a bad idea, considering how much the world didn't make sense right now. Maybe Arthur was already drunk. Could he even count to ten? Maybe he'd try later. He didn't really believe he could, considering how non sequitur things seemed to be at the moment. First the compliments, then the problems with his acting, and now he was the best Juliet the Marquess had ever clapped eyes upon? Just what game was the man _playing_? Or just with what had the Marquess laced Arthur's wine?

"Pardon me if I'm confused, sir, but just before, you... to Gilbert... you..." Arthur didn't know how to say it without either sounding defensive, angry, or stupid—or maybe all of them at once.

"Ah, that was just to get rid of the fellowl He's boring. You're _far_ more interesting," the Marquess murmured, his attention on pouring himself another glass of wine.

Arthur wasn't sure how he felt about the game the Marquess was playing, toying with people's emotions like that. It was a very arrogant ploy, and though it relieved Arthur to know that he had not made noticeable mistakes—in fact, it made him practically ecstatic that he was the best Juliet Marquess Jones had ever seen—the young actor was nevertheless conflicted and confused with the Marquess, his motives, and his end goals.

"... I thank you, then, Marquess."

"See? I _told_ you you would not know what I was going to say," Alfred commented with a smug grin. Before Arthur could say anything, Alfred suddenly leaned forward. "Now, I was serious about that pay raise, though, Arthur. It'll just be... different from Mr. Beilschmidt's. Are you interested?"

A pay raise sounded like a good idea, but Arthur wasn't sure he liked the concept of it being different—or the twinkle in the Marquess's eyes, for that matter. It seemed like a dangerous look, like the one a cat tends to have when it finds a new mouse in the neighborhood.

Alfred took Arthur's silence as interest and plowed through. "Simply, I want you to act as my fiancée, Arthur Kirkland. You will live in my manor, and you will have whatever life you want, as long as you can occasionally keep up the appearance of being my woman." There, the plan was out. And the tone in which it was said made it sound much more than a request.

Arthur's mind went blank. _What? _He wasn't sure if he had heard that right. The Marquess wanted Arthur to act as his fiancée? Live in his manor? This was too much, way too fast, just like Juliet had been too much too quickly. This rushed feeling seemed to be occurring often in the presence of Marquess Jones.

Alfred sipped his wine as he watched Arthur, an excited grin still on his face. This plan sounded exciting from just having said it. Lord knows how much fun this was actually going to be! It would be a bonus to see Arthur in a dress more often as well.

"... Do I get compensation, sir?" Arthur finally replied, face red. He had realized that no matter how crazy it sounded, he was actually considering it. It would give him reprieve from the onslaught that he was expecting from many of his fellow actors from hereon out, and it would allow him to act in what might be the most taxing role in his life. It was _exciting_.

"A sum of as many figures as you wish," Alfred replied, knowing that money was not an issue. Whatever number Arthur could grasp his mind around would probably not even equal a quarter of what Alfred had in gold, let alone what he held in titles, bonds, and estates.

"What about school?"

"School?"

"Yes, sir. I go to acting school." Well, _that_ was unexpected. Arthur would be even tighter for money than Alfred had initially thought. Honestly, how did people survive on such measly funds? Alfred had thought Arthur had a hard enough life living day to day on a theatre wage; the man hadn't even factored in the possibility of school tuition. It was a miracle that Arthur hadn't sold off that ring. That was a testament to just the type of person Arthur was, and coincidentally, it was just the type of person that interested the Marquess greatly.

"Well... unfortunately, you will have to withdraw. Perhaps we can call it an extended leave of absence, for you will surely be allowed to come back when you are done."

"... And when is that, sir?"

"Stop calling me that. It makes me sound forty," Alfred intoned. He, too, thought that anything besides his first name made him sound like his father, and that was the last comparison he ever wanted anyone to have. Plus, he was avoiding the question, because, to be honest, he hadn't thought that far yet. "If we are going to do this, you must be willing to call me Alfred."

"... And who says that I am willing, _sir_?"

"Honestly, my vault of gold," Alfred replied cooly. If excitement at a good challenge didn't grasp this born-to-act Brit, then surely money would. Especially with a school tuition all this time, Arthur definitely couldn't have been able to afford much in ways of basic necessities, let alone entertainment and leisure. Although, if Arthur had a family he lived with, that surely would prove problematic. However, Alfred assumed that since they had not been mentioned yet—and surely, they would be mentioned before school—they were not a problem. Whatever the reason was, Alfred couldn't care less for it at the moment.

"... You're not really leaving me with much of a choice, are you... Alfred?" The name felt weird as it rolled around in Arthur's mouth. It was like a large melted lump of chocolate: delicious tasting, but so very hard to swallow. It was a new feeling. Arthur had never known another Alfred before.

The nobleman's eyes twinkled. He knew then and there that he had won. "Would you think so badly of me, Arthur? The door is always open."

Arthur's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "You knew I would accept."

Alfred ran a hand sheepishly through his hair as he smiled and leaned back into the cushy armchair. "I wouldn't say that the thought hadn't crossed my mind..."

The young actor sighed. This was happening too fast to even think about. He needed time to accept all of this, even if the contract had already practically been signed, sealed and delivered. "When do I start?"

"Two hours," Alfred decided on the spot. Two had been a number that had never failed him before. "Gives you enough time to go home and gather your belongings, does it not?"

Arthur blinked in surprise. This was all happening _really_ fast. He needed to stall.

"But what about the play?"

"You may participate until the end of _Romeo and Juliet_'s and _A Midsummer Night's Dream_'s runs, and then I'm sure we can think of something."_  
_

Damn. The Marquess already had all the answers. There wasn't much else Arthur could do to buy himself time. This was happening here and now, and it felt like one of those moments that would change his life forever, yet he had so little time to experience it, so that he could later savor or damn the memory. Somewhere in the actor's head, he was sure it would be the latter. After all, this was for the challenge and the money. Who cared about the aristocrat on the other side?

Alfred stood up, draining his glass of its last drops. He was excited, ready to go, and so very confident that this would work. This would be his best whim-based plan yet, and _that_ should show his father just how powerful whims could be.

"Ready to go?" Alfred asked, already putting on his coat.

Arthur stood up as well, his movements lethargic. This was still completely unreal and utterly unbelievable. Even his parents would think it was a joke if he ever told them, especially if he said so with a completely serious expression.

"... No."

Alfred grinned. "Great." And with that, the Marquess was out the door, whistling down the hallway.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Hello again!

First of all, I love that quote at the beginning from _Twelfth Night_. It's one of my favorites, and I think with how ridiculous his life has gotten, Arthur would completely agree with Fabian on this one. xD  
Writing this chapter also gave me an excuse to skim through _Twelfth Night_ once again, which I haven't done in a while. Ah, the memories!

Oh, and, devious me, did I forget to mention that his mother was dead in the previous chapter? Hehe, it must have _slipped my mind_. I'm sorry I led you to believe that she would still be around...

Although here's my serious apology: I'm sorry if there are some Victorian Era discrepancies in this story so far. I could take the easy way out and say that since this is such an AU, I can take great liberties with it, but I'm already taking liberties enough by giving Arthur a bicycle.

I want this to be as real as possible, so you really feel like you're back in time. But there are tough things to research, such as various phrases and terms. So please, if I have some anachronisms, let me know! I always want to learn new and interesting things, and, as some of you know, I delight in having conversations with readers, and it can be about wholly unrelated things. I like finding out that you're real people. xD

With that being said, woohoo! This chapter is more the length I'm used to writing (though I can't say that I will do it all the time; thus, don't expect it of me). I hope that this was more interesting than the last, and that it moved at a faster pace, for those of you who felt the drag in the last one. I just had to establish some train of thought, which usually takes a while, in my experience, and it's often a boring while.

As always, please review and let me know what you think!

All the best,  
Galythia

P.S. Alfred being a noble is so damn sexy. Really. Does anyone else see that? o3o


	4. From Rags to Riches

_"It is too difficult to think nobly when one thinks only of earning a living."_

- Jean Jacques Rousseau -

* * *

**.: 3. From Rags to Riches :.**

Arthur rode back home as quickly as he could, the whole time thinking over and over that he had made a mistake in accepting. After all, he would be living under the same roof as that devious man; who knew exactly_ how far_Arthur would have to act as the Mar―Alfred's―love? Despite all of his past acting experience, Arthur, much to his chagrin, had never kissed anyone before... let alone a man.

The young actor shuddered at the thought as he entered his small room of a house. All there was was bare floor, a bed, and a woven basket in which he kept his books, a few other knick-knacks, and whatever clothes he owned. Even his bathroom was shared with the other tenant, Ludwig something-or-other, who, luckily, never seemed to be around anyways.

Arthur stood there, looking over all of his things appraisingly. He couldn't help thinking that Alfred would laugh when he saw just how little Arthur owned. _He was probably given a carriage on the day he was born_, Arthur thought bitterly. Rich people. Despite what everyone seemed to think, Arthur was pretty sure the world could function without them.

Arthur quickly changed out of his sweaty clothes and replaced them with his best: slacks, a white button shirt, and a vest. It probably wasn't nearly close to anything the Marquess would consider "well-dressed," but Arthur didn't care. He considered _himself_dressed to the nines, and that was all that mattered. Impression was only ten percent clothing; the rest was acting―and Arthur could do that just fine.

As Arthur had left the theatre, a couple minutes delayed from having just stood there dumbfounded in the drawing room, he didn't catch sight of the Marquess whatsoever. That whistling tune had disappeared down the hall and out some door or other. That didn't seem to matter at the time. But then, as Arthur rode home, the thought struck the actor that the Marquess had no idea where Arthur lived. And come to think of it, Arthur didn't know where Alfred's manor―well, any one of probably many―was either. _Poorly executed plan_, Arthur thought, somewhat smug. Aristocrats could be idiots too.

Arthur's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door; three short raps of succinct politeness.

_Okay, maybe not all aristocrats are idiots_, Arthur thought darkly, having allowed himself a moment's hope just then that this would have been his way of backing out. It wasn't that he was getting cold feet about the acting; it was that he was just worried about the man for which he would be doing said acting. This proposal bordered very closely on capital offense, after all, and Arthur would most likely be hanged by all the nobility if this were found out—something along the lines of having seduced an unknowing noble with his powers of acting. Alfred could spin the situation any way he wanted to if it came to that point, and escape unscathed. Arthur knew he wouldn't be so lucky.

Thus, it was with such apprehensive thoughts that the young actor had been hoping he could back out now. But somehow Alfred had thought of the problem of address as well, and had found it on his own.

Arthur walked over to the door and opened it, prepared to give the standard greeting to the nobility. But the face that stood before him was completely serious, if not a bit cold. Light, slightly spiked blond hair, high cheekbones, black and white outfit. This man before Arthur was the complete opposite of the Marquess.

"I... err... Can I help you, sir?"

The man glanced Arthur over in a way that made Arthur want to creep back inside and slam the door shut. Those old eyes held such wisdom and knowledge, and that exact wisdom and knowledge was judging the young actor now.

Arthur waited in silence until the man, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, spoke, "I have been dispatched to fetch you. The master awaits." There was an odd slightly rough, uneven accent to that voice. German? No. Too little throat gargling noises for that to be the case.

Arthur blinked stupidly a few times before it sunk in that the man was talking about Alfred. So this man must be the carriage driver or one of the servants or something. _Sheesh, how cold_, Arthur thought defensively.

"I'm ready to leave," Arthur replied. He turned around and picked up his basket of items, which was heavy from books, and was relatively large from having to hold all his clothing. Arthur grunted with the effort, and as he took a step out the door, he felt the weight lift. The light haired had taken the box from Arthur and, as he carried it down the hall, past the stairs, and out the door, he somehow made it look utterly effortless. Arthur was thoroughly impressed.

The actor turned back around, picked up his coat, and put it on. He hadn't even had enough time to tell his landlord of this, or pay the remainder of the month's rent. The young actor felt a great amount of guilt at leaving Heracles so suddenly like that. The man had always been nice to him, allowing him to be late often with the money, despite how much the actor always tried to be prompt with his rent. Heracles was a gentle man who made his living as an animal caretaker to some wealthier upper-middle class family or other. No doubt he didn't need that last payment of rent, but Arthur had his own sense of pride and morals, and there was no question in his mind of not paying. Alfred better answer for that when Arthur brought it up.

The tall intimidating man returned and stood with his hands clasped together at the front. "Please bring other boxes out here," he spoke, his tone as completely unreadable as his accent.

Arthur blushed sheepishly. Holding his empty hands forward, Arthur murmured softly, "Well, err... That's all there is."

If the man was surprised, he didn't show it. Without hesitation, the fair haired man replied, "Then please follow me." Not waiting, he then turned on his heel and made his way down the hall.

Arthur had to dash after the man to follow his large strides. "Wait! What about my bicycle?" Arthur called out after the man.

"It's been loaded onto the carriage," the man replied, holding the door open to the shining, ornate carriage that had materialized in front of Arthur's front door. Arthur blinked in surprise. The thing was huge. All over the body of the carriage, there were golden angels sitting on equally shining swirls of leaves and branches. The filigrees were finely detailed, perfectly well kept, and cleaned to utter perfection. This thing probably cost Arthur's father's lifetime income.

Arthur took a tentative step forward, his sack of schoolbooks hanging limply from a shoulder.

"The master does not like to be kept waiting," the butler/guard/driver murmured, in a tone that had Arthur running for the carriage.

The well-dressed man got in after Arthur and closed the door behind him. So driver was out of the list of possible jobs, Arthur noted, looking anywhere but at that intimidating enigma of a man. If this was the way that Alfred wanted to start off their work relationship, the rest was bound to be terrible. Cold, hard, and terrible.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

Soon enough, they were speeding off to an unknown location that was an unknown distance away. Arthur now had some time on his hands to contemplate his fate, and, if he were to be honest, there was little chance that this new job of his would end well. If one ignored the possible insinuations that such a situation could produce if ever discovered, there was still the _difficulty_ of the task itself. Arthur wouldn't be acting as Juliet on some stage. He'd be acting as a _real_ nobleman—well, _noblewoman—_against real people who were the real deal. Any mistake didn't mean being fired from his job; it meant being fired from _life_. Arthur swallowed nervously. Twenty-two seemed like an awfully early time to die. _Other people have had worse. At least I made it through childbirth,_ Arthur thought, trying to calm his nerves.

After a while of wallowing in utter silence, with the intimidating guard/butler looking straight ahead at that oh so interesting panel of wood, Arthur became desperate for a change. His thoughts were dampening his mood, and the cold treatment from this guy across from him was starting to rake on the actor's nerves.

Thus it was out of both boredom and desperation that Arthur pulled aside the heavy velvet curtain that covered the window... and let out a quiet gasp of awe. Somehow, the narrow houses, featuring windows stacked on top of one another with uncomfortable proximity, had evolved into tall trees evenly spaced out by white rhododendron bushes. Occasionally, a gas lamp broke the green and white pattern, casting what easily could have been an eerie light upon the cobblestone and shrubbery, but was instead a warm glow that offered Arthur some much needed comfort.

The carriage rounded the central green, in the middle of which stood a statue of a fair maiden, holding beside her a basket of magnolias. Leaves and twigs twisted up her body, in what almost looked like a vortex of gnarled vines. It was terrifyingly beautiful, and only became more so when one realized that those twigs and branches extended directly from her body. She looked like what Arthur imagined a wood nymph of some sort would look like.

The young actor was thoroughly impressed with what he could see of the manor grounds in the mediocre lighting that was the best gas lamps could do when not indoors. Whoever kept these grounds had very fine skill and good taste. Arthur did not for one moment believe that the Marquess, so _busy_ with money problems, balls, social gatherings, etc., would have the time to _stoop so low_ as to tend his own grounds. Thus, it was the groundskeeper Arthur made a note to compliment at some later time. Arthur loved gardens, and whenever he went back to the countryside, he would be relegated to taking care of the family's little patch of flowers and decorative greenery. His favorite flower, of course, was the classic dark red rose, with its deep, seductive crimson and its faintly sweet scent.

When the carriage came to a stop, the guard/butler stepped out without a word and held open the door for Arthur. Maybe the guy was a footman? Then again, he was far too well-dressed to be in a position so low on the manor duties hierarchy—not that Arthur actually knew much about that ladder, but one tended to learn little things here and there when the majority of one's plays were about kings, queens and nobles.

Arthur turned to get his meager belongings from the carriage, but somehow, they were already on the ground beside him. The door opened and out stepped a well dressed man, the beginnings of white showing in his hair. He looked to be about forty-five, which was a miracle lifespan so far in this day and age.

The man smiled warmly, which made Arthur shiver a bit, so startling a change it was from the cold indifferent treatment he had been receiving for at least the past hour. The man bowed—too deeply for Arthur's comfort—then spoke, "Welcome, Mr. Kirkland, to Lightwood Manor. Please, follow me."

Arthur had no reply, and instead bent down to pick up his things.

"You can leave that be, sir. Berwald will see that it makes it to your quarters."

Arthur followed the butler's line of sight and it landed right on the light blond head that was staring just as seriously as always at one of the columns beside the front entrance. The guard—Arthur guessed—nodded once, in the gruff and quick manner that bespoke of some military training, and then turned abruptly on his heel to see to his duties. At least now Arthur had a name to put to the face, even if that really didn't help him understand anything better than he had before.

The butler held open the door expectantly, and thus, with hesitant steps, Arthur left behind his belongings and passed through those ornate doors into a new stage of his life.

Arthur held his head high and walked with purpose as he was led down the hallway to the central staircase. Maybe there was still a chance he could back out now, even if that ran a high risk of incurring the nobleman's wrath. It wasn't that Arthur was scared... okay, maybe it was. Twenty-two was still on the younger side of things, and there was still so much he wanted to see.

However, as the young actor moved along the bright hall, feeling the soft carpet give a little beneath him with each step, such second thoughts were banished from his mind. Arthur's eyes roamed the paintings that lined the hall, the swirls of silver paint that lent the space some sophistication, the slightly faded flowery wallpaper, and the... the _stairs_.

The actor's eyes widened. Before him stood a majestic staircase, lined with a lush, deep crimson carpet that was the exact shade of Arthur's favorite rose. The staircase split at the top, leading up on both sides. There was a second floor bannister that went all the way around, over which Arthur could barely make out countless doors. At the head of the staircase was a portrait of a beautiful woman, with golden curls tumbling down her shoulders, slightly covering the soft curve of her delicate collarbones. Though she looked regal, there was something in her eyes that set her above the rest, something which the artist had captured fantastically: it was a certain amount of fun-seeking wildness. Arthur had seen that look before in the Marquess's bright blue eyes on occasion, when they twinkled with mischief. The resemblance was unmistakable. This must be Alfred's mother.

Before Arthur could observe more, he heard his name called from above. He looked up and was greeted by a bright smile and a small wave of the hand.

"I'm glad you made it safely," Alfred called from the banister on top of the portrait. "Oswald," he spoke, his attention shifting to the man behind Arthur, "you may leave him to me. Please see to the rest of your duties." Oswald bowed deeply, confirmed it with a verbal reply, and retreated as Alfred began to make his way down to where Arthur was standing. As much as the actor hated to admit it, the Marquess looked very suave and vaguely cool as he made his way down with such regal confidence. Alfred was dressed in a dark blue robe with a silver cravat that made his eyes look especially startling, and from the way he was walking, he seemed fully aware of the effect he had.

When Alfred reached the bottom step, he chuckled loudly. "Do I have something on my face?" he asked playfully. It was then that Arthur realized he had been staring in complete silence ever since Oswald had left. The actor snapped out of it and scowled, his cheeks flaring with a deep red that matched the carpet. He wanted to say something snappy and witty, but his mind stopped him. He was talking to a noble—and his _boss_—after all.

"O-of course not, sir." Arthur tried to hide his face by bowing. He knew that he had been thinking, for a moment, that Alfred was really quite handsome. In that moment, he had forgotten his qualms about the new job, his hatred for the aristocracy, his suspicion for Alfred—he had forgotten it all. The only thing that remained in his brain, if he was honest with himself, was the thought of how confident and good looking Alfred seemed. _Damn. He must practice that in front of Oswald over and over for occasions like this_. Needless to say, Arthur didn't like being caught off guard, especially by rich self-righteous bastards.

"What did I say about calling me 'sir'?" Alfred asked, his tone only slightly more serious than before. He really had meant it when he said he wanted Arthur to call him by name.

"Ah! Sorry, si—uh.. Alfred." That name still felt very heavy and weird rolling off of Arthur's tongue. It practically crawled over his lips, leaving behind the taste and feel of something he wasn't sure was good or bad. It was just bizarre.

"Good." Alfred gave an approving nod. "Now we have official matters to discuss, of course, but at least we can do that after dinner. You must be hungry, right?"

To be honest, Arthur hadn't noticed his hunger at all until Alfred had just mentioned it. But now the actor realized he was starving, having not eaten anything since lunchtime. It surprised him a little, for some reason, that the Marquess would actually think of dinner, considering everything that had just happened in the past four hours. Arthur's life had turned completely upside-down, while the Marquess seemed to be having an average day as usual. That irked the young actor just a little bit.

Not waiting for an answer, Alfred turned around and added, "Follow me." Again, the way in which he said it made Arthur immediately step to before he even realized what his feet were doing. Arthur was really starting to hate it when the Marquess did that.

* * *

Arthur played with the edge of the tablecloth, not sure why something that seemed so priceless was sitting underneath a bunch of plates when it deserved to be framed just for the craftsmanship of the frill. Every turn was like that: discovering something new that very well should belong, in Arthur's opinion, inside a museum, but instead was just left lying about in this manor as if it didn't matter in the slightest. Arthur had initially thought that Alfred had an appreciation for art when the man had first appraised the ring, but now, the actor wasn't so sure Alfred had an appreciation for _anything_.

The table was set with all manners of foods, from pepper crusted beef tenderloin with a port wine reduction to braised duck drizzled over with a slightly tangy apple compote. Arthur had never seen this much food in his life, and he wasn't sure if that made him happy or angry. He was very hungry, and he was sure that Alfred, on the other hand, had never been hungry in his life. At least he had the experience of roughing it out, which he was proud of, but it angered him slightly that this could all just appear before Alfred at the snap of his fingers.

"Like what you see?" Alfred mused, clearly proud that his chef had managed such an impressive display.

Arthur glanced at the dark red drapes that seemed to melt over the windows, like dripping molasses. He looked at his eight utensils, which were heavy enough when he had picked them up to probably each be worth the price of Arthur's annual rent. He observed the detailing of the fairies and harps and leaves carved into the wood of his chair, which made him feel like he was sitting on a throne. They were all magnificent, and that made him slightly resentful.

"It's... lovely, si—Alfred," Arthur replied, letting through the edge in his voice even though he could have easily hidden it with the slightest bit of acting. It was annoying to see so much money at once when Arthur's family had never beheld even a fraction of such in their entire lives.

Alfred raised a questioning eyebrow, not having missed the tone. Instead of replying with something vaguely amused, which would have annoyed Arthur even more, the Marquess surprised the actor by replying, "I know. It's more than I ever wanted."

It wasn't what he said, but the way in which he said it. His eyes held that same look of deep sadness and slight wistfulness that they had held before when Alfred had first talked to Arthur about the ring and Esmeralda. It made Arthur want to reach out and touch the Marquess's shoulder, which Arthur would have deemed as some manipulative move on the Marquess's part, if only the emotions in those blue eyes weren't so raw.

"Anyways, let's get on with dinner!" Alfred called, his eyes lighting up once again, a grin back on his face.

Arthur blinked, his anger and his sympathy both temporarily forgotten. The thought struck him that maybe the Marquess was an equally good actor as well. Such pain wouldn't be easy to hide, and if that look had been faked, then it still stood that such pain wasn't easy to fabricate. One way or another, maybe the actor with the greatest talent in the room was actually Marquess Alfred F. Jones.

Pushing that thought aside for now, Arthur gave a small nod of agreement as he was served slices, pieces, and cuts of various different items on the table. He started into dinner with zeal, deciding that while he could, he would take full advantage of everything the Marquess would offer. That man still owed him for messing up his life, even if it had been in a fortuitous way.

They made polite conversation throughout dinner, touching nothing more serious than recent weather or local play productions. Arthur was constantly on edge, thinking carefully about his replies, whereas Alfred was letting loose, finally able to talk to someone without having to pretend _so much_. He, of course, still hid many things, but Arthur's presence somehow made him more relaxed without even thinking about it.

When dinner was done and the plates cleared away, Alfred stood up. "We should adjourn to the study." Through the course of dinner, his British had slipped very slightly into the partial American Arthur sometimes heard, where it now remained. I guess there's always a time when one must get down to business, is there not?" There was something in those words that implied the Marquess was talking about much more than just this one job Arthur was taking on.

Arthur hesitantly stood up and followed the Marquess. They came to a room not far from the dining hall, just as lavishly furnished as the last. Arthur was growing tired of just how much money this man possessed. It made him very uncomfortable, to say the least.

"Please, take a seat," Alfred murmured, gesturing to one of the two comfortable armchairs by the already lit fireplace. Arthur hoped that they didn't keep all fireplaces running like this, just in case the Marquess deigned to use any one of the rooms. That would be a great waste of nature.

Alfred plopped himself down on the armchair across from the actor, a quirky smile on his lips. Clapping his hands together, the Marquess leaned forward, trying to be all business, despite his obvious excitement. Peasants really had no idea how boring an aristocrat's life could be.

"I'm sure you have questions. And, actually, I'm pretty sure you regret your hasty decision, right?" The way Alfred said this made it seem as if he approached actors with this type of job offer all the time―something which made Arthur feel the slightest bit jealous, even if the Marquess was right that Arthur had indeed been thinking of backing out.

"I―" Arthur began, ready to explain that he would like the option of refusing, but the Marquess wasn't finished.

"Of course, that would be such a disappointment. The actor who plays Juliet so well will not rise to an even greater challenge—possibly, the challenge of his _lifetime_. No ambition..." Alfred trailed off, the corner of his lip upturned in a small knowing smile.

The Marquess was being manipulative and he knew it. He saw from the moment he had met the actor at the stairs that Arthur had had second thoughts, and _that _simply wouldn't do. Where would Alfred get his fun then? He couldn't force Arthur to stay, so he had displayed his riches instead, setting a grand feast and then walking Arthur a roundabout way to this room, which was one of the more ornate in the manor. And just in case the promise of gold and so much more wasn't tempting enough, Alfred added in that last statement, which he knew would strike at the actor's pride in his own abilities―something which any right-minded actor would treasure most.

Alfred knew well how to get people to do what he wanted. It sort of came with the job description of being an aristocrat: one who lived in a world of deception and darkness, hidden under sugar coated lies and bright smiles. Thus, if these ruses didn't work on Arthur, then Alfred was a frog in a prince's clothing.

Sure enough, the Marquess's confident smirk was rewarded with a split-second outraged expression from Arthur, who calmed himself with surprising speed. The man was a better actor than Alfred had given him credit for.

"Of course I was not thinking of backing down... _Alfred_." Arthur replied, his tone even, though his eyes smoldered. He had been slightly annoyed just a second ago, but now he was livid and highly insulted. Who did this blue-eyed man think he was, going around threatening Arthur's pride like that? Well, Arthur thought, the man didn't _think_; he knew who he was. He was Marquess Jones, the nobleman who got whatever he wanted, however he wanted it.

And Arthur hated him for it.

"Good." The nobleman smiled and nodded, choosing to ignore the anger in Arthur's eyes. He instead focused on the mere sight of them. Arthur's eyes became so utterly bright when they were full of emotion, shining like newly cut emeralds. It was one of the features that made Arthur's Juliet so utterly unique and spectacular. Of course, when it came to acting this new role, they'd have to fiddle around with make-up and coloring quite a bit to play _down_ those eyes, merely because they were so recognizable when provoked.

Alfred loved to incur such strong emotion in Arthur just for the sight of those shimmering eyes, even if it meant that the actor would grow to dislike the Marquess more and more. That didn't matter much to the Alfred, in truth. He needed a good actor―a spectacular actor―not a friend, and definitely not a lover. Alfred had already given up on love the day his mother passed away. It was just fun to poke and prod at his new toy sometimes, whose attraction came from the fact that he was always so emotionally responsive.

"I'm glad that we have that settled," Alfred commented, looking very pleased with himself. It was no secret between the two of them that Alfred had just manipulated Arthur into his hands once again. "Now on to the details. But first—any questions?" Alfred's accent had slipped into a little more American once again―something which the nobleman didn't even seem to notice.

"... Why do you do that?" Arthur's voice was quiet. He was trying to still recover from that implied jab at his pride, and talking about something wholly unrelated would help.

"Do what?"

Arthur was looking unseeingly at the cackling flames. "Your accents," he explained, his voice becoming a bit softer. Mesmerizing fire always had a way of calming him down, and the more it danced, the more relaxed he became, almost like the fire was directly using Arthur's store of stress and tenseness to fuel itself.

"What accents?" Alfred asked. The sharpness of his tone made the young actor look up.

"Your American accent, si―Alfred." Old habits die hard. "Sometimes it seeps in when you speak, and other times, it's impossible to tell that you can even speak with an American accent at all."

Alfred's voice turned completely British. High-brow British. "I don't have an American accent," he intoned quietly, his everything-is-okay smile faltering a little, his tone betraying some deep unfathomable pain.

Arthur opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by a dismissal wave of the Marquess's hand. Alfred laughed, the sound completely light and jovial. "It's merely imagination. You might be hanging around faeries too much, Arthur. Maybe we should have you retire from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_."

Arthur's brows furrowed. He knew he hadn't been imagining it. But it might not be a good idea to start this relationship off on a bad foot—well,_ more_ of a bad foot—especially if they were going to be working together closely from hereon out. Thus, the actor let the subject go for now.

"Yeah, something like that," Arthur murmured quietly, noticing that the Marquess was no longer making eye contact.

"So anyways," Alfred began with a start, bright smile back on. "First is..." Alfred's eyebrows knitted together and his fingers ran down a metaphysical checklist in the air as he thought. "Money?" he guessed, trying to think from a "peasant's" point of view. "That's important to you."

The Marquess's British was back on full, and that was how it remained for the rest of the conversation; Alfred was now carefully guarded. He hadn't realized just how much Arthur's presence could mysteriously put him at ease, and it disturbed him that he had even been able to let any American slip in at all. He'd seldom ever done that with anyone before, besides Oswald on occasion, let alone do it with a stranger. This young actor was truly exceptional, in ways Alfred wasn't sure how he felt about just yet.

Arthur fought the urge to make some sarcastic remark about how nice it was that Alfred was thinking so _lowly_ and _simply_ as to speak of actual money. He instead nodded his assent. It was difficult to hold back his annoyance-bordering-on-anger, especially when the Marquess was being so secretive about things that seemed so utterly simple to Arthur, such as accents and tone inflections.

"What's my wage?" the actor asked, thinking that he should receive a hefty amount for his trouble. He better.

"I meant it when I said I should give you whatever it is that your heart—or your purse—may desire," Alfred replied, as if he were talking about the possibility of passing around a bottle of cheap wine, rather than passing around more fortune than many ever made in their lifetimes.

Arthur eyed the Marquess warily. "... What if I asked for this manor?"

"Then it's yours," the Marquess replied without hesitation.

"_What?_" It was more out of outrage than out of surprise that Arthur was startled. "Does money mean _nothing_ to you?"

Alfred was taken aback. What had he said wrong? "Of course it does," he replied after a moment's silence, surprised back into an American inflection. "But your comfort and happiness is of the utmost importance if this venture is to be a success." And just like that, the British accent was recovered. He really had to be more careful.

Alfred leaned back in his armchair. He didn't need the manor. Though it was nice to have, riches only existed to be used for good causes—or for relief of one's boredom. The entertaining possibilities that Arthur could bring was worth so much more to the bored Marquess than this manor. Plus, Arthur hadn't mentioned anything about the contents within the manor, which Alfred assumed he would keep. "Is that what you want?"

Arthur shot Alfred an incredulous look. Was the Marquess actually serious? Even if he was, there was no way that Arthur would ever even ask for something that big. He actually knew the worth of such things, and was completely uncomfortable with such a large sum of wealth being passed back and forth like a polo ball. It didn't help the Marquess's image in Arthur's eyes either that the man was willing to give something so expensive away to someone he barely even knew.

"No," Arthur replied, still shocked and a bit disgusted. "Just pay me what you will."

Alfred said nothing, wondering as to why Arthur had refused the money. All the other lower class citizens that Alfred had ever worked with—save for Esmeralda—would have jumped at the opportunity and demanded so much more. Did Arthur not see that he could ask for Alfred's whole estate, or even his fortune? Alfred had thought Arthur was peculiar, to say the least, but this actor was getting more and more interesting by the minute. Arthur was unpredictable, and that envigorated Alfred rather than deterred him.

Of course, little did they know, they _both_ were having equal difficulty figuring out the thoughts and motives of the other.

"Then let us settle it at this," Alfred began, still a bit bemused, but knowing he had to make some decision, otherwise they would get nowhere. "I'll pay you twice your current theatre wage for the duration of your employment. For every successful night at a ball or other social gathering, there will be extra." Alfred glanced at Arthur, a sly smile manifesting on his face. "And, of course, should we make it to marriage..." Arthur stiffened noticeably. He hadn't thought about that. "... then I'd be happy to depart with a hefty sum of my remaining fortune should we 'choose' to divorce."

Arthur stared blankly at Alfred with an expression which caused the Marquess to burst out laughing. Alfred Jones was never too far from a good mood.

"What is it? Have I offended your moral sensibilities?"

Arthur was quick to a scowl, and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the Marquess suddenly leaning in close. A bit too close.

"I hope you know how adorable you are when you do that." Arthur could feel the Marquess's breath caressing his face, bringing blood rushing up to his cheeks.

"E-Excuse me, b-but I think common decorum d-dictates for a c-certain amount of private s-space," the actor managed to stutter out, utterly startled and completely forgetting that he had had something to say regarding his wage, not to mention the subject of _marriage_. Just how long was this job supposed to last?

Alfred's even gaze held for just a moment more before the Marquess fell back in his chair, amused smile on his face.

"You're right. My _sincerest _apologies... I seem to have lost myself for a moment." Despite his words, it was obvious that Alfred had been completely aware of—and had been very much enjoying—his actions. "You were saying?"

"... I... uhh... Nothing, sir—ah. Alfred." Arthur averted his gaze back to the fire, willing for it to do its calming wonders once again on his flustered cheeks.

Alfred's smile widened ever so slightly. Another victory. This conversation was going just the way he wanted, and Arthur was being oh so cooperative; it was a miracle.

"Where am I staying?" Arthur asked after a period of silence.

"Here." Alfred replied. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Time for a test—another one of his many sudden whims.

Arthur shot Alfred a look. "I've gathered that much. I meant more specifically, which room?"

"Any of them."

The Marquess's unhelpful succint replies were making it very difficult for the cackling flames to do their soothing work on Arthur's nerves.

"Where are my things?"

"In your room."

"And where is that?"

"Next to mine."

"Which is?"

"In this manor."

That was the final straw. Arthur snapped. "Will you stop playing games with me, Alfred?! I am here to work, and if you won't be professional about it, then we will not get_ anywhere_! It almost seems as if you are working against me! _I am sick and tired of your stupid teasing, you arrogant selfish bastard!_"

In the process of yelling, Arthur had stood up and started to point at Alfred with a shaking finger. Now he stood there, face still red, breathing raggedly. His hand slowly lowered and his eyes gradually widened as he realized what he had done. Arthur had never even raised a finger against a noble, let alone one of such high stature. He had called Alfred angrily by name and had insulted him in a variety of ways. Arthur probably just lost his job right then and there—wait, disregard the money. He had probably just lost his _life_, or his freedom, at least. He had seen people put away for much less._  
_

"You know, I was born _in_ wedlock," Alfred commented, his bored amused expression having not shifted in the slightest. In fact, he might even have looked more amused now than before.

Arthur stared at Alfred, at a complete loss for words. Was this the fabled Harrington anger that was so great that it didn't even show? Surely Alfred could forgive him for this one outburst. _Please don't let Peter be an only child._

"What's wrong? You look like you've just seen a ghost. Do I look that unbecoming right now?" Alfred's face twisted in mock horror at the thought.

Arthur sputtered. "I... You... Just... I-I'm so sorry!" The young actor bowed deeply, to the point where his nose would probably touch his knees if he leaned in an inch more. He wasn't doing this to save his own life as much as to protect his family from the pain. He hadn't even thought of them once in the past couple of hours, and that racked him with guilt. Arthur realized, in hindsight, that his family needed that money, and for even just that, he needed this job to work out. He should have cooperated more, kept up with the Marquess's games, and tolerated any other crazy schemes that came his way, just for the sake of those three smiling faces. This job was about acting inside_ and_ out; being with Alfred was like acting 24/7. He should have been able to do it. And now that Arthur saw that, it was too late.

"Why?" Alfred asked, his tone holding the same curiosity one would expect out of a teacher who already knew the answer and was going to punish the student anyways, regardless of his reply.

Arthur kept his head down, though his eyebrows creased with confusion. Was this some kind of trick question? Was he not liable for the crime until he admitted to it or something else ridiculous like that? Or was this some odd aristocratic rule that dictated that if he _did_ confess, he'd get off lighter for it? Arthur's head was swimming with contradicting possibilities. Finally, he closed his eyes, settled for something, and ran with it.

"I'm sorry that I called you an arrogant bastard, sir." Arthur winced. By admitting it, he practically just did it again.

"It's true that lies are offensive to my taste... but then again, there was no way you could have known the circumstances of my birth." The actor noticed that the Marquess didn't mention Arthur's carefully picked adjective. He couldn't perceive anything from the Marquess's light tone; the Marquess sounded like he was talking about the weather.

"... And I'm sorry for raising my voice, and for further insults, and for—"

Alfred stood up. The resulting armchair creak silenced Arthur. The young actor tensed as Alfred approached, ready for due punishment. A feeling of déjà vu passed through him; this wasn't unlike how they first met, which, Arthur realized with disbelief, was merely a week ago.

Alfred clapped Arthur on the shoulder and felt the actor jump in surprise.

"Congratulations, chap. You're hired. I can now confidently say that you, Arthur, are perfect for this job."

Arthur's head snapped up. "What? But I just—"

"That was a test," Alfred explained as he retreated back to his comfortable chair. "I needed to know if you were comfortable enough to scream at me and insult me and do everything else besides. I needed to know that you weren't afraid."

Arthur blinked, fully straightening up. The ironic thing was that that wasn't the truth at all; if anything, this experience made Arthur fear Alfred's whims even more. The Marquess was more sophisticated and multi-faceted than the other aristocrats Arthur had heard about or encountered. It kept the young actor constantly on his feet and guessing, which made him worry more than if he had been dealing with the terrible, but predictable, Devil Duke himself.

The young actor stood there in silence, which made Alfred chuckle. "Come, man. Sit back down. We have much to discuss, and time is running out." Arthur wordlessly did Alfred's bidding, not able to help the wary glance he sent in the Marquess's direction. That look apparently lightened the Marquess's mood even more, for he delighted in seeing that Arthur was capable of such a wide range of facial features.

They then delved into a long conversation covering a wide range of topics. Arthur learned that he would have maids and caretakers. He would be doing his studies on aristocratic customs in the morning instead of attending school. Putting his acting education on hiatus wasn't a problem, considering Alfred personally knew the Duke of Wentsworth, the main benefactor to St. John's School for the Theatrical Arts. By the end of their conversation, it honestly wouldn't have surprised Arthur anymore if Alfred outright stated that he was first cousin to the Queen herself. Honestly, did all aristocrats know each other?

The Marquess had decided that their relationship—what he liked to call the Production of the Ages—should start from the very beginning. That's to say that Alfred would start as if they had never met before, and court "Elizabeth"—Arthur's new female name—from thereon out. They would let all the aristocracy witness their entire relationship, from beginning to end, to make the show all the more convincing. Alfred was excited, for this honestly might just work. It had been a whim, like all of his other brilliant strokes of genius, but this one was the greatest and most life-changing one so far. He was going to get a _fiancée_, something which nobody would ever see coming from the ever fleeting, never settling "half-breed" son of Duke Harrington.

Arthur learned that he would be continuing with both play productions until they finished at the end of the week, at which point Alfred mysteriously said that he would take care of things. Honestly, a lot of the explanations the Marquess was giving tended to be along the lines of "I will handle matters," and then he would leave it at that. It sounded very open ended. Arthur hoped that Alfred had a plan.

In truth, Alfred didn't have an actual complete plan. He would have one eventually, and he'd spend a great deal of tomorrow thinking on it. After all, although this was fun and games, he was smart enough to know the brevity of what he was asking for, and the risks that they were both taking. This plan needed to be foolproof. There was a fine line between fun and games and utter stupidity, and Alfred was proud to say that he had never crossed that line yet—and no, there would not be a first for everything.

Arthur brought up the subject of marriage once, but it was immediately dismissed by a small wave of the hand and a "We will get there when we get there, Arthur." The actor quickly came to learn that Alfred would only talk about that which interested him in the moment, and would let everything else fall by the wayside. If he didn't want to talk about it, then they wouldn't talk about it. Simple as that.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed one when they were finally done with their discussion for the night. It had been a long and exhausting one, full of plenty more outbursts, laughter, teasing, anger, annoyance—the whole slew of emotions and actions. Arthur admitted that Alfred did have a charming side when he wanted it shown, and he also had a very intriguing deeper emotional side, which he let slide on occasion without seeming to notice. It was in those moments that Arthur actually felt some sympathy for the man, rather than the general annoyance that weighed down his heart whenever he looked in the Marquess's manipulatively smiling direction.

Alfred was having a pretty good time himself. He discovered that his new project of an actor actually possessed quite a feisty side. Arthur had a short fuse, but could be quick to hide it—a feat which wasn't nearly as easy as it sounded. Alfred played around, seeing how far he could push Arthur's anger, but no matter what he did, Arthur seemed to have learned from his earlier outburst, and remained comparatively well behaved, albeit tense, for the rest of the conversation.

In general, it was as much a time for settling down the initial details as it was a time for the both of them to learn more about each other under the pretense of not really doing so. No direct questions were asked, and no personal information was divulged, but at the end of the night, they both felt that they had a much better understanding of who they were each dealing with. Alfred thought that this relationship would work perfectly, whereas Arthur was worried that he'd end up slapping the Marquess some day.

Alfred glanced at the clock as it chimed. "Look how the time flies." He stood up, stretching. "You really ought to get some rest. There's a busy day ahead tomorrow."

Arthur stood up too, suddenly feeling very sleepy. When immersed in conversation, he failed to notice just how tired he had been getting. But now that they were out of it, all those weary feelings rushed him at once, making Arthur somewhat dizzy with fatigue.

"That sounds like a good idea."

Alfred was fixing up his robe. "Should you need anything, don't hesitate to call for Oswald."

"... What about you?" Arthur asked sleepily, rubbing at his eyes.

"What about me?"

"Should I need anything..." Arthur trailed off, hoping that Alfred could finish in his fresher mind the sentence which Arthur's addled mind could not.

Alfred chuckled warmly. "If you should choose to take a carriage ride to my manor to handle your needs there, then be my guest."

Arthur's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Had he heard that right? "Your manor...? But I thought..."

"This is _your_ manor."

Arthur's eyes widened. He definitely had heard that right. "_Mine?_"

"Yes. This is yours for the duration of your employment."

"Just me?"

"Yes." Alfred found this tamer sleepy Arthur highly adorable as well. He wanted to reach out and fluff up that messy blond hair with his hand, but knew better than to act on this whim.

"By myself...?"

"You have Oswald." Alfred had fixed his robe to his liking, and was now heading for the door, gently leading Arthur by the arm there as well. The actor didn't seem to notice, so fixed was he on this idea that this manor was solely for his use.

"But I thought you said... my things were in the room... next to yours..."

"I lied," Alfred admitted. It was no secret to either of them that he did this on occasion.

"Well... where are you?"

"Not that far away. About five minutes through the grounds by coach. This is a guest house, after all, on the larger plot of land that is entirely mine." Alfred opened the door and let go of Arthur's arm. "Now I really do suggest that you get to bed. You've got your first ball soon enough."

Arthur nodded absently as Alfred started making his way out the door. But then those words sunk in. "Wait—what? When?"

Alfred smiled. "A week." He had no idea up until that point that it would be a week away, but the Benningtons were throwing their annual April start-of-the-season ball then, and that sounded like a good time as any to start. It was right at the end of the runs of _Romeo and Juliet_ and _A Midsummer Night's Dream. _In addition, it gave Alfred enough time to fabricate some matters and write some letters, but it wasn't so far away as to make the Marquess feel restless. Plus, it'd be nice to see just how good Arthur really was.

"Thus, sleep well. Good night!"

With that, Alfred retreated down the hallway, ringing for Oswald to take care of Arthur. Alfred needed to get some sleep too. He knew he'd have to write some letters, get together paperwork, visit a few people, and do so much more by the time the Bennington Ball came along. The coming week would be busy, but a good type of busy. It'd been a while since Alfred was this excited about anything. Surely the chance meeting between him and Arthur had been some sort of sign from Esmeralda. Maybe the woman was finally forgiving Alfred for having neglected her ever since that fateful day.

Alfred grimaced. He really shouldn't lie to himself like that.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Whew! Another chapter out. This one took a bit to put together, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. However, I am publishing it because I don't think that further thought on this would actually improve it. This is its best, and though not much happened, I still feel like it was important to get these things settled and put on paper, so that we could move on to bigger and better things. Thus, I apologize to those who felt like this was slow.

Now, on to general comments:

1. I think "dressed to the nines" actually existed as a phrase back then, based on what research I've been able to do. It probably started coming into use during the later period of the Victorian Era, but I think it was there nevertheless. Please tell me if you know different and I'm wrong about this.

2. The reason I thought Arthur would like roses is because of the Tudor rose, which (coincidentally) is England's national flower. I actually didn't know that when I thought of it, actually. I just knew that it was the Tudor family emblem, which I thought was, you know, as English as one could get, so... Plus, it lends itself to many possibilities later on that he would like roses. Alfred is a _totally_ different person when he "courts" someone.

3. All the food I ever mention in this story is most likely something I've cooked before. It's the only way I would actually know how to describe them, if I ever needed to, so I write from only personal cooking experience.

That's about it for this one! I'm surprised at how manipulatively evil Alfred was in this chapter, actually, but I can't help it. They speak to me, and I just write down what happens (I don't care if some of you think I'm crazy for it). Maybe writing is a form of schizophrenia. xD

On a side note, regarding the other USxUK fic that I was toying around with when I was finishing up OBT—you know, the one set during the American Revolution. I think I'll start that _after_ finishing this one. Writing two at once was something I was thinking about, but I've long since realized that that probably isn't a good idea. I want to be able to devote all my energies to one story within a fandom, so as not to confuse my brain, make updates slower, and make them both somewhat mediocre because my mind has to switch back and forth all the time. So I hope that's okay with you guys!

Happy reading!  
Gal


	5. If I Can Learn to Do It

_"You live and learn. At any rate, you live."_

- Douglas Adams, _Mostly Harmless_ -

* * *

**.: 4. If I Can Learn to Do It :.**

* * *

Arthur rolled over, grumbling darkly. He had been in the middle of a good dream, in which Marquess Jones had given Arthur a job that paid beyond his wildest dreams. It had been a weird job, but he had accepted it nevertheless. He would be able to send money back to his family. Make them rich. His mother could get enough cloth to sew to her heart's content. He saw their smiling faces, beaming with pride that their eldest son had done something useful with his life—albeit, in a dress, but still. Greatness was greatness.

Thus, it was with a growl that he greeted the sudden intrusion of light into his bedroom, which invaded his eyes with as much sharpness as it invaded his dream.

Wait—light?

"Rise and shine, Master Kirkland!"

Arthur shot up, startled. Sure enough, there was light streaming in past the recently thrust open curtains. Oswald was standing at the foot of the queen size bed, large breakfast tray in hand.

Arthur rubbed at his eyes as bits of yesterday came back to him in foggy pieces. So none of it had been a dream after all. Yet, after waking up in such a lavish setting, and after eyeing what was in store for breakfast, Arthur wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. All he knew was that he had underestimated how tired he had been last night. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had ever woken up after the sun.

"Don't call me that, err... Mr..."

"Oswald. Just Oswald, sir," the greying man replied with a gentle smile as he placed the tray down on the small breakfast table beside Arthur's bed.

"Don't you have a last name, uh... Oswald?" Arthur wasn't used to addressing people who were significantly older than him by anything other than last name plus prefix.

"Of course, sir. My full name is Oswald Philip Jenkins III, but I do insist, sir, if I may, that you call me Oswald." The butler spoke as he proceeded from the table to the wardrobe to unpack Arthur's basket of belongings, professionally making no comment as to its lack of content.

Arthur swung his leg over the side of the bed. The actor stiffened, noticing that he was dressed in bedclothes. Anything beyond last night's conversation had completely escaped his then-befuddled mind and thus now refused to come back into memory. Arthur hoped it had been Oswald who had done the honors, and not that sly Marquess.

The actor realized he was starving, despite the large dinner he had eaten the night before. And considering the impressive display of food that lay on the table, Arthur thought he might be able to get used to this way of life—not that he agreed with such extravagance, of course, but hey. Food was hard to come by, and if you were smart, you took it whenever you could.

"Then I insist in return, Oswald, that you call me Arthur—and not Master Arthur, either. Please."

Arthur said some quick prayers before starting into his meal. He tried a little bit of everything, because, honestly, he couldn't believe he was having roasted chicken, poached eggs, three different types of bread, seven different cheeses, sausage, ham, salad, and porridge for breakfast. Part of him felt guilty for having this when the rest of his family could not, but he temporarily pushed those thoughts aside for the sake of enjoying what was given to him.

Oswald was smiling ever so slightly as he hung up the last of Arthur's clothing. "You, know, sir—"

"Please don't do that either," Arthur interrupted before taking a bite of ham. "I am not knighted."

Oswald turned back to the basket to start retrieving books. "Very well, Arthur." Oswald's small smile widened ever so slightly. "You know, you are just like Master Jones."

Arthur sputtered and almost choked on his milk. How had the butler come to that absurd conclusion? As far as Arthur could see, they were such opposites that they made France and England look like best friends since the beginning of time. "_What?_"

Oswald glanced over from assessing, with mild surprise, Arthur's hefty copy of _The Odyssey_. "He has never let me call him 'sir,' let alone 'Master Alfred,'" the butler explained.

Arthur stared. Of all the things he had heard recently over the past twenty four hours, this had to be the most surprising of them all. There was no way that artless egotistical clack-dish of an aristocrat would say that. No way.

"But you just did so, to me," Arthur insisted, not knowing why he was feeling agitated about this news.

Oswald nodded. "To _you_," he pointed out. "To all the servants in the household and to anyone besides himself, Master Jones is and always will be Master Jones." He turned back to retrieve another book. This time, it was Thomas Harding's _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_. "Just as, alas, you will, for the duration of your stay, be Master Kirkland."

Arthur's eyebrows knitted together as he took an overly forceful bite of porridge. This new development bugged him, and he realized he knew exactly why: Alfred had surprised him once again. The man was actually utterly unpredictable, and that made him dangerous yet different, which made Arthur interested, which wasn't what he wanted in the slightest.

Arthur found himself thinking deeply upon those small moments when Alfred revealed some dimension of himself other than that of a bored, whimsy, maniacal aristocrat. Those moments pulled in Arthur's interest more than he had expected them to—mainly because he hadn't expected for those sides to even exist in the first place. Alfred being a multi-faceted character was already far more than the actor had bargained for, and his natural curiosity just couldn't help itself.

_Curiosity killed the cat_, Arthur grimly reminded himself. It was probably best if he just ignored those small moments and instead worked to fit Alfred into his squared away aristocratic archetype—the same one which the actor hated and resented so much. Pretend those moments never happened. Move on and keep hating the man.

Yeah, right. Who was he kidding? His curious mind wouldn't let him off so easily.

Arthur wiped his mouth with a thick napkin. "Please give my compliments to chef... err..." Arthur made a note to get a list of all the servants' names from Alfred later.

"Tino Väinämöinen. He's Finnish, though he studied the culinary arts in France for a decade and a half. Please call him Tino."

Arthur nodded. "Then please give chef Tino my thanks." Standing up, the actor stretched. "Where should I take this?" he asked, gesturing at the tray.

"No, no, no, Mas—Arthur. Please leave that to me."

"But—"

"You have a very busy day ahead, and I suggest you get dressed, instead of worrying over such little matters. The kitchen is on my way to the grounds, after all."

Arthur relented, seeing the sense behind Oswald's words. He made his way over to his newly packed closet and picked out a pair of slacks.

"You mentioned I had a busy day," Arthur commented, as he searched for the appropriate shirt. "What do I have scheduled, exactly?"

Oswald chuckled as he put away the remaining books. "Many, many things, Arthur. Master Jones has planned you to the brim, I'm afraid."

Arthur glanced at Oswald. The butler had meant that last part as just a phrase, but Arthur, on the other hand, was _actually_ afraid.

Oswald continued, not noticing Arthur's look. "You have a fitting this morning at Pierce's, then you are to be acquainted with your social practices teacher, at which point you will have your first lesson. Today's is about... cutlery and dinner conversation, I think. After that, you have lunch and a meeting with the Master to discuss job-related matters." Seeing Arthur's curious glance, Oswald added, "Master Jones did not elaborate."

The butler straightened up from picking up the last book, _Wuthering Heights_, from the basket, and continued, "After the meeting, you are apparently to be transported to the theatre in a 'discreet' manner, in order for you to participate in your performances. When you return to the manor, you will then have the first of your nightly ballroom dancing lessons. After that—"

Arthur held up a hand. "Please, stop." His head was spinning. How had Alfred arranged all of this in such a short amount of time? It was only yesterday night that they had even decided any of this. Then again, maybe this had been Alfred's plan all along, and he had expected—no, known—that Arthur would agree in the end? That thought incensed the actor greatly, and thus, he pushed it aside. He wasn't unfair, and wouldn't get angry about something for which he had no actual evidence.

"I need to lie down," he murmured, resting his head against the warm oak of the wardrobe.

"I'm afraid that that is out of your current range of possibilities, Arthur," a perfectly high-brow British voice commented from the doorway. Arthur's head snapped up.

There, standing with perfect posture as always, was Marquess Alfred F. Jones, already dressed and ready for the morning. In fact, he looked like he had been up for hours, his bright eyes already showing a little tiredness, and it was barely even eight.

"Good morning," Alfred added, his eyes gleaming with amusement at the sight of the suddenly frigid actor. Arthur had been shocked into stillness by the—_stupidly—_breathtaking visage that was Alfred this morning. The man wore a rich royal blue vest, lightly embroidered with golden stars and swirls, all of which made the man's sky-blue eyes that much more stunning. His black suit jacket was draped lazily—albeit neatly—over one arm, as the other arm was occupied with leaning against the doorway. That lazy smile spoke volumes. The Marquess knew full well where every hair on his head was falling, every fold on his clothes was crinkling—and he liked the effect. Scratch that. He loved it.

Arthur shook himself out of his stupor and muttered, "Good morning, Alfred."

"Bright and chipper as always, I see." Alfred turned to Oswald and smiled. "Thank you, dear Oswald, for taking care of her _highness_ this morning." Arthur growled, making Alfred chuckle.

Oswald was struggling to keep a professional expression on his face, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It has been my utmost pleasure, Alfred." The switch from title to name did not escape Arthur's notice. So it really was true that Alfred wouldn't let them call him "Master." Arthur frowned. Of course, this didn't match with his image of the aristocrat at all. He'd have to seriously think upon this later.

Alfred gave a small parting bow. "Well, I just came to check in. I shall be off on business for the day, Oswald. Should you need to reach me, you know what to do."

Oswald gave a deep dow in return. "I wish you a good day, Alfred."

The Marquess then turned his attention to Arthur and smiled. He gestured at the clothing in the young actor's hands and commented with a wink, "I'll be sure to ask Stratford & Co. to tailor you some men's attire as well." With that, the Marquess ducked out and closed the door behind him, leaving an infuriated Arthur behind.

The young actor growled, turning back to his clothing, which seemed so meager now after the Marquess's comment. He made for the changing room, which he guessed was that door by the window. Before Arthur turned the knob, he asked, "Is he always like that?"

Oswald looked up from cleaning the breakfast tray. "How do you mean?"

Arthur stopped halfway through the door, wondering just how much he should reveal about his own personal misgivings and dark feelings for the aristocracy toward this man who probably had spent his whole life so far surrounded by such society.

"I mean... Is he always that frivolous and... err... carefree?" That was the best way Arthur could phrase it without sounding offensive about Alfred's arrogant tendency to tease and play with those around him.

Oswald was silent for a while before his lips shifted into a smile that seemed vaguely sad. He made his way to the main door with the breakfast tray. "... Not always, no. But in recent times, yes." Before Arthur could spout out any further questions, Oswald added, "Please excuse me while I return this. It would be most appreciated, Arthur, if you finished changing by the time I returned." With that, the man bowed and was out the door.

Arthur was left more confused than ever before. He quickly changed as his mind coursed through the day's conversations. There was already so much to think about, and the clock had just struck eight. So much was planned for the day that it made Arthur's head spin. And Oswald's relationship with Alfred was one the young actor still couldn't figure out, let alone untangle the mystery that was Alfred himself. Thinking of the Marquess as a scheming one-dimensional louse was a lot easier to deal with than this new hint at a more multi-faceted man. It made Alfred seem like a relatable human being, with his fair share of hardships and problems, ups and downs. It made Arthur soften a little in his regard toward the Marquess, mainly because his curiosity was jumping at the nobleman with more enthusiasm than was called for.

And that was bad. Very bad.

* * *

The rest of the morning passed by in a blur up until lunch. Arthur had gotten dressed very quickly, only to be stripped again and measured by a bunch of women who seemed to know _exactly _what he was there for. By the end of the day, based on how many people seemed to know about his job, Arthur began to wonder if Alfred had just sent out a notice to the whole world proclaiming the existence of this new delicate relationship. Was the Marquess not at all worried about people finding out? Did the word "discretion" not mean anything to his seemingly careless mind? _Well, of course not_, Arthur thought. It wasn't the Marquess's life that was at stake now, was it?

Arthur found himself wondering about just what sort of drug Alfred had slipped him to have gotten him to agree to this insane idea in the first place.

Arthur had been whisked from his fitting straight to his first lesson in the nobility. His teacher, Madame Héderváry, had been as strict as he'd ever seen them come. She even wielded a pan with which she had constantly threatened Arthur, lest he made a mistake. Needless to say, the tactic worked and Arthur learned quickly and quietly.

Arthur had never been more thankful for his mother than he had been at that moment. Jane Kirkland—bless her soul—had taken the time when Arthur was younger to teach him the elements of a formal table setting. Thus, the day's lesson had been easier than what he expected the usual would be. Thank god. The less Ms. Héderváry wielded her pan, the better.

After the lesson, Arthur was brought to the manor's main dining hall for lunch. He had been under the impression that the Marquess would have been joining him, but, as it turned out, the nobleman was still out on business matters. The actor told himself that he was happy the man wasn't around. More for him to eat, and less stupid idle chit-chat to deal with.

Nevertheless, he knew that part of him had been disappointed in the Marquess's absence, and that part was the part in Arthur's mind that was aptly labeled "My Curiosity is _Not_ a Part of Me. I Swear Upon It." It was also the part that was the most excited when Alfred finally did walk into the room, looking almost exactly as he did that morning, save for a change in vest. No hair seemed to be out of place. How did the man achieve that? Arthur never thought that getting everything one ever wanted could extend to _looking_ exactly like how one always wanted as well. Truth be told, it was annoying.

"I see you've met Madame Héderváry," Alfred humored, settling down in the chair across from Arthur and looking at the actor's pale complexion. "What do you think of her?"

Arthur lowered his eyes and studied the last bit of goose on his plate. "... She's very strong-willed," he finally concluded.

Alfred let out his bellowing laughter. "You mean she makes you want you to curse your own birth," he said, picking up a small bread roll and taking a carefully measured, aristocratic bite. Arthur's surprised expression only made the Marquess laugh more as he added, "Be careful, though. Madame Héderváry is your sponsor for court. Try not to make her angry."

The young actor shot Alfred a quizzical look. "Sponsor?"

"I've told you before that I plan on courting Elizabeth from the start, which means that I cannot have ties with you from before the Bennington Ball. Thus, Madame—or should I say _Countess—_Elizaveta Héderváry has agreed to introduce you to society."

Arthur paled. From the sound of it, he was going to spend even more time with the pan-wielding devil-of-a-teacher—who now, he just learned, was a Countess. A _Countess_? Did these people not have better things to do than devote their time to messing with the lives of lower class citizens?

"Why?" Arthur asked suddenly. It wasn't as if Madame Héderváry actually liked him. Or at least, if she did, Arthur felt terribly sorry for those that she hated.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Must there be a reason?"

"Yes." Arthur even made brief eye-contact to make his point.

Alfred chuckled. "She owes me for a favor I did a long time ago." He was silent for a while before continuing. "... And, she finds men of a certain... 'type' interesting."

Arthur coughed down his lemonade, the suggestive tone not having been lost on him. "What do you mean?"_  
_

The Marquess laughed it off. "I mean men that are so dashingly handsome as myself, of course," he replied smoothly, though Arthur could tell that that was a lie. Being an actor lent you a certain amount of perceptiveness, mainly because you often had to perceive your own character flaws by examining other people closely. Such skill came in handy for times like these.

Arthur opened his mouth to protest for the truth, but was cut off by one of the Marquess's classic dismissal hand waves.

"We're short on time, Arthur, and there is still much to talk about. Please eat quickly."

Arthur closed his mouth with a huff, but his annoyed expression didn't change. Had there been some strain in Alfred's laugh, or had the young actor been imagining that?

When the Arthur had finished eating, Alfred wasted no time in launching into business. Arthur's thoughts weren't preoccupied with Alfred's earlier lie for long, considering just how much information they actually had to cover, and in very little time.

* * *

From that long conversation, Arthur went directly to history class, which Oswald had failed to mention that morning. Arthur had suspected from a young age that he didn't like history, and, being poor, he'd never gotten a chance to confirm that notion—until now.

Well, his younger self had been spot on.

Why was it necessary for him to learn about Count Whatshisface and the lands that bordered his territory, or about the shaky trade contract that Duke Warthogorwhatever signed with the Irish that exchanged housing rights on his land for a share of farming yields? Was this what aristocrats talked about when they got together? No wonder Alfred liked playing around with the lives of lower class citizens, which seemed very entertaining in comparison with the Baron of Clarencesomethingorother's extended family tree. Owning a theatre seemed like a much better pastime than that of any of these other nobles whom Arthur was forced to study. Their stuffy selves made Arthur almost like the Marquess, and that in itself was already a great testament to how boring they were.

Needless to say, Arthur had struggled through history and politics class. He refused to believe that Alfred knew all of these trivial facts, and if the Marquess said he did, he would be lying through his teeth. Simple as that. This stuff was impossible.

When Oswald dropped by the study room to end the lesson with Ms. Johnson, Arthur wanted to hug the butler out of sheer joy. Never had the young actor seen someone so heroic as Oswald had been in that moment. That man deserved a Victoria Cross for how valiantly he had swooped in and rescued Arthur from battle—the sheer definition of bravery in the face of great foes.

Oswald whisked Arthur out to the front, where Arthur boarded the same ornate black carriage from last night. He had learned earlier that morning, much to his mortification, that this vehicle was dedicated to his sole use. Wasn't Alfred going a bit overboard with all of this? Did he treat all of his guests like this, loaning them carriages and a guest manor?_ Damn the rich people..._

As Arthur rode off from the manor, his mind was jumbled with information. Those two classes had thrown buckets of names, phrases, ideas, etc. at him, not to mention he had had quite a long discussion with Alfred about all the logistics necessary for this job. For some reason, it had seemed like some sort of joke up until that point. But when Arthur had seen just how much Alfred had planned and thought out the scheme, all of a sudden, it hit him. This was _real_.

They had established the final numbers of Arthur's wage and had enumerated out his duties in the form of a legal contract. Alfred had already developed an identity, and had apparently been spending all morning preparing the evidence for it. Elizabeth Percy was to be Arthur's female name (when Alfred had mentioned this, he had made some "maiden name" joke that had Arthur blushing and the Marquess cracking up).

Elizabeth Percy was supposed to be some very distant relative of the Percy family up north, which was so big that barely anyone could keep track of all the members anymore. This was the same Percy family which, Alfred confirmed, was of Henry Percy, "Hotspur," of _Henry IV, Part I_. Arthur thought that the Marquess might have done that on purpose, paying some indirect homage to The Bard while also hinting dangerously at Arthur's own line of work. However, he kept such suspicions to himself.

Alfred had also spoken about Elizabeth's back story. She had been orphaned at a very young age and had been taken in (in secret) by Lady Mary Seymour, who was a widowed distant cousin of the Duke of Somerset. Apparently, such a lady did exist, but had been ostracized from court long ago for her anti-social ways. Alfred had known her in passing, and only when he had been very young. Nevertheless, Lady Seymour made for a perfect mother figure, mainly because no one had paid her much attention during the years of her life, and now that she had passed away, she was no longer around to refute any of these "facts."

It was a much easier story from that point on. Elizabeth had been passed on to Countess Héderváry's care, once again, in secret. Nothing had been expected of Elizabeth, and she was supposed to have been simply kept around. Nevertheless, as the story goes, the dear Countess had felt such a strong love for the girl that she had found it necessary to prepare Elizabeth for court. The Bennington Ball would be Elizabeth Percy's great unveiling, and it would usually be a big scandal, but Alfred was sure that society would instead hail the Countess as a martyr and a hero for having saved Elizabeth from Lady Seymour's odd, unladylike ways.

And then that was where the _real_ fun would begin.

Arthur had to admit that that story was actually quite brilliant. He could find no loopholes, and as long as all those who were involved kept silent, he saw no way of this falling through—well, aside from a slip-up in acting. But Arthur vowed he would work harder than anyone else had ever worked before. He would show the nobility that a mere commoner like him could beat them at their own game of lies and deception.

Arthur was pulled out of his thoughts when the carriage jerked to a stop. Berwald—regarding whom Arthur had still learned of no more than a name—had accompanied him to his destination, silent and unsmiling as always. That destination turned out to be some seedy alleyway, actually, about ten blocks from the theatre. Arthur had gotten off with his bike and was told to ride the rest of the way, in order to be inconspicuous. Arthur wanted to roll his eyes when the driver—Thomas—had given him such instructions. After all, he had met at least twenty people that day so far who already knew what he thought was supposed to be a secret role.

As Arthur walked into the actor's hold, he was immediately hailed by William's loud and clear voice.

"Hey, Art!"

The young actor whirled around, relieved to see a familiar face after the past ten hours or so of strangers. It felt very surreal to be talking to William again as if nothing had ever happened—which, in itself, was surreal. Fact was, Arthur's whole life was a living dream at the moment, and the jury was still out on whether or not it was one from which he wished to wake up.

"Good evening," Arthur replied in an overly high-row British tone.

William cracked up. "Might not want to mock them too loudly," he stage whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.

Arthur blushed. He hadn't even realized he had done that. He had been instructed by Madame—wait, _Countess—_Hérzevárdy that morning to talk in royal British at all times that he could, and thus had been doing it ever since then. Luckily, Arthur had mocked the accent often enough before all of this ever occurred, which was a godsend in two ways: Ms. Hérzevárdy had had no use for her pan and William hadn't even batted an eyelash at his slip-up.

"So Arty," William continued, "Prepared to shock the audience once again with your stage prowess?"

Arthur punched William lightly on the arm. "I'll give you something to be shocked about if you don't stop with that nonsense."

William laughed. "Chipper as always, I see."

Arthur blushed, remembering Alfred's similar words from that morning. It brought with it the memory of how handsome the Marquess had looked—which was both so good and so utterly terrible. Arthur noted that that dichotomy of feeling seemed to be occurring a lot where Marquess Jones was concerned.

"Yeah, yeah," Arthur replied, trying to clear his head by focusing on gathering together his various props and apparel.

Preparation passed quickly as sprits ran high. In fact, everyone was in such a good and antsy mood that Gilbert had barely even made a passing negative jab at Arthur when they had bumped in the hall. Needless to say, there was strong pressure to top last night's spectacular performance, and the actors chattered constantly about it as they worked. Because the double act had been so well received, they were apparently going to do both plays every night until the end of the week.

"Listen up, boys!" Lewis called. "We are going to give a spectacular show tonight, I know it! I don't ask for any more from you than to make the audience cry, laugh, sing and dance as if their lives depended on it—which, throw in some liquor and we've practically got ourselves a weddin', eh?"

Everybody laughed. Good humor abounded, and Arthur, for a moment, almost even forgot about his double life. No one here would have guessed that he had just spent that morning being waited on by a butler or that he would go back later on to ballroom dancing lessons. It was very hard to believe that only a day had passed since Arthur had agreed to enter into this new world of riches and fame. If anyone had asked him yesterday morning what plans he had next Wednesday, he would have replied that studying was the most interesting activity he had scheduled. And the Bennington Ball? Never heard of it. Never even dreamed of it.

And yet, here he was, preparing for it, less than a week away. It was completely unreal—and Arthur didn't know which side seemed more like a lie than the other. This day had made it very clear to Arthur that this _was_ happening. Elizabeth Percy would be real. And yet, William treated him the same as always. Gilbert had no idea that he had been insulting a soon to be noblewoman.

To be honest, it was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

But that wasn't bad, right? There was actually no harm done in accepting this role, was there? If his closest friend couldn't even notice the difference, then all that meant was that Arthur was doing a good job of acting... right?

Arthur admitted that he felt a small amount of guilt at having to lie to William, but the alternative, on the other hand, was unthinkable. Plus, the challenge of it made the situation somewhat more acceptable to Arthur. With this job, he didn't need to act just around the aristocracy, but also around everyone from his "regular" life too. Everyone had to be deceived left and right. Thus, the thrill and excitement of such a big role had been far too appealing to pass off. And if William were in the same situation, Arthur was sure the freckled actor would hide it from him too, right? No friendship was worth a hanging.

The more the young actor thought about it as the night went on, the better he started to feel. He convinced himself that this _was_ a good idea, and that Alfred had done the right thing in roping him into this scheme. It was great practice in acting, simply because it wasn't practice at all. No mistakes on either side. It was exciting simply _because_ it was so dangerous.

When the double suicide scene finally came in _Romeo and Juliet_, Arthur had almost thoroughly convinced himself that this deception was okay, if not great. The hate/love dichotomy that seemed to be occurring often in recent times was finally giving away to a nice middle ground. Either that or Arthur was really good at lying to himself. If it_ was_ the latter, then Arthur guessed that skill came naturally with being a good actor.

As he held the dagger up for the audience to examine in dramatic wonder, Arthur's eyes caught sight of the sapphire ring sitting snugly on his finger. The way it glinted in the firelight reminded Arthur of Alfred's eyes when they were twinkling with mischief or some other evil inclination. Those captivatingly intelligent yet whimsical blue eyes... That lopsided roguish smile... That hair that looked like Alfred spent hours in the morning making it just the right type of messy...

Arthur blinked. He had lost concentration for a moment. Gilbert opened one of his eyes from his position on the ground and hissed at Arthur, giving him a "what are you doing, you incapable imbecile" look. Arthur stuttered a little and quickly recited the rest of his lines, his face flush with embarrassment. He hadn't scanned the balcony before to see if the Marquess had been there watching, but he hoped to God that that man had better things to do than watch the same plays two nights in a row.

* * *

"What was that, Kirkland?" Lewis called angrily as he made his way toward the hapless actor after everyone had taken their bows.

Arthur winced, averting his eyes. "Sorry, sir."

"As you should be!" Lewis sternly reprimanded. Then his features softened a tad bit. "Really, lad, you were doing so well." Arthur hated that disappointed tone more than the angry one.

"I know, sir. I just... I got distracted."

"It was your shining moment! What's gotten into you today? Did something happen last night?"

Arthur blushed. "N-no." Where did all his acting skills go all of a sudden?

"You sure, boy?" Arthur could feel the director's keen eyes rake over his body.

Arthur swallowed and took a quick but deep breath then flashed Mr. Lewis a smile. "Yessir. Just feelin' a bit under the weather." He even made his accent more lower class than usual to boot.

Lewis seemed satisfied with the answer after a little further assessment. "All right, lad. Just don't do it again. The Marquess personally chose you for this, and may the Lord help you should you disappoint the nobility."

Arthur inwardly swallowed. He was sure that even God wouldn't be able to help him if he slipped up again, especially in other, more pressing circumstances.

"Yessir." Arthur nodded then quickly packed his things and biked off without another word to anyone else.

* * *

The carriage was waiting there just as promised, right where it had left Arthur before. The young actor stowed his bike and got in, breathing a sigh of relief as he slumped down in his seat.

"If _that's_ your posture, I doubt we'd survive a minute come time for the ball."

Arthur's eyes snapped open, and he shot up in his seat. Sitting across from him, every hair, thread and shoelace in place as always, was Marquess Jones.

"If that is also your reaction to my presence, then we are in much deeper trouble than I had previously imagined," the Marquess added, chuckling that infuriating chuckle.

Arthur glared at Alfred, something which he was fast getting comfortable with doing, considering just how often he did it—and it was only a day into this relationship so far.

"You just surprised me, is all," the actor replied stiffly, his accent naturally slipping back into high-brow British.

Apparently, Arthur's expression must have been funny because Alfred burst out laughing as the carriage lurched forward onto their next destination.

"I'm flattered that I can catch such a good actor by surprise. Then again," Alfred murmured, his smirk widening an bit, "something else seemed to have captured your attention that last bit on stage as well... Should I be jealous?"

Arthur, who had been looking outside through a crack in the drapes, whirled around, face red.

"You saw?"

"Naturally," Alfred replied, getting a kick out of Arthur's flustered reaction. "What sort of owner would I be if I did not know about all that went on within my playhouse?"

Arthur scowled. "It was nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am positive, Marquess." Arthur's acting was nonexistent right now. Alfred got under his skin far too easily for the young actor to uphold the concentration necessary to act well when they were in private.

"I've told you, Arthur. Call m—"

"_Marquess_."

"... Feisty," Alfred commented, laughing silently to himself. Honestly, where had this wonderful plaything been all his life? He almost felt like he should be paying Arthur for the side job of court jester, at this rate of entertainment.

Arthur tried to ignore the Marquess. It had been Alfred's fault that he had been distracted, after all. They rode in silence for a bit as Arthur tried his best to pointedly stare out the window and not think about the weight of the Marquess's even gaze resting on his shoulders.

"You know, it pleases me greatly to see that you're able to do that," Alfred commented out of the blue.

Arthur's eyes didn't deviate from the window. "Do what?"

"Hate me."

That got Arthur's attention. He turned around with a frown. "What?"

"Hate me," Alfred repeated. "The ability you have to be so openly hostile to me pleases me."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. This seemed like some sly trick. Was he supposed agree, since it made Alfred happy, or was he supposed to refute it, despite it being the truth? Wait—was it the truth? Arthur had been thinking the whole day on the mystery that was the Marquess, and, though he had come to no conclusion as of yet, he was quite sure that he didn't _hate_ the man. Actually, to be honest, if one looked past the stupid teasing and the annoying flirting, Alfred was more likable than most other aristocrats in Arthur's eye—that is to say that he was barely tolerable, but that was already saying a lot.

Ever since they had first met just over a week ago—Arthur could barely believe that was the case—Arthur had gotten to know the Marquess a little bit. Although they had only had one conversation before that one yesterday night, the young actor had had many opportunities to observe the Marquess in his natural element. And though he didn't want to sound like a stalker, Arthur had watched Alfred quite a bit whenever he could. The man just had an aura about him that drew eyes his way. It was a natural ocular deviation.

Thus, Arthur had seen the Marquess talk to Lewis before rehearsal quite a few times, and he had come to see that though Alfred played around and was a teasing creep, it seemed like he was only that way toward Arthur. Toward everyone else, Alfred was the perfect image of a gentleman, always nice, ever respectful, and humble as they came. No wonder he was respected by those of the playhouse.

This was the reason that Arthur didn't _hate_ Alfred. It was obvious to the young actor that the Marquess was actually passionate about theatre, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized just how hard working Alfred was. After all, the man had indeed been out all morning putting together the pieces of Arthur's new identity. _That_ must have been the work of at least a week, and he had seemingly achieved it all in one morning. Could coaches even travel that fast?

It was Alfred's growingly evident work ethic that Arthur respected, and that was practically the man's only saving grace in the young actor's eyes. Nevertheless, that was further than any other noble had ever gotten in Arthur's book; at least Alfred had a saving grace at all.

"Why?" Arthur asked, his eyes still lingering on Alfred's smile.

"Must there always be a reason with you?"

"Yes," Arthur replied with a small sigh. Was it always going to be this hard to get information out of the Marquess?

"Well, if you really want to know, it pleases me because that way I _know_ there's no way you could fall for me."

Arthur sputtered. "_What?!_" He searched Alfred for any sign that the man was joking, but the man seemed actually serious this once.

"It would be troublesome if this relationship were to transpire beyond the bounds of acting, wouldn't you think?" Alfred explained.

All the young actor could do was stare and nod ever so slightly in agreement. Part of him also grew a bit annoyed that the Marquess was being so utterly egotistic at the moment. Fall for him? That wasn't something that had been likely to happen to begin with. They were both men, after all.

"I mean," the Marquess continued, resting his chin on steepled fingers, "we both know the risks we are taking, don't we?" Alfred knew them more than anybody, actually, considering he'd grown up dodging those bullets left and right.

Arthur found his voice after a moment. "Indeed we do," he replied quietly, glad that they were on the same page about the matter. Alfred had been starting to scare him with how carefree he had seemed to be with such "delicate" information. But now Arthur knew that Alfred knew to be careful as well—and it was, to be honest, a relief.

They were silent for a while as the carriage journeyed on. Finally, Arthur spoke up as they entered the manor grounds.

"Did you think it likely at first?"

Alfred glanced over from a letter he was reading, from a stack which he had pulled out of his breast pocket. That was the hard-working side that Arthur had come to appreciate a little bit the rare times he saw it. The Marquess was always productive.

"Think what likely?"

"That... That I'd 'fall for you,' to put it in your words," Arthur replied, his cheeks reddening. He expected that annoying chuckle, if not some snarky teasing comment along with it.

But, of course, Alfred surprised him. Yet again.

"No," the Marquess replied, completely serious.

Arthur turned and their eyes locked briefly before the young actor was forced to look away by the sheer weight of Alfred's gaze. He had to admit that he liked Alfred's eyes better when they weren't so... real. This deep, serious look didn't suit the Marquess at all, Arthur decided then and there. It didn't suit the man even one bit.

The young actor turned back to the window, watching the passing rhododendron bushes without much concentration. "... Do you think it likely, then, that I'll ever come to consider you a friend, at least?"

"No." There had been no hesitation, but it had been quieter this time.

Before Arthur could reply to that heartbreakingly lonely tone, the carriage stopped. Without another word, Alfred got out of the carriage and was through the front door before Arthur had even stepped down.

* * *

The two of them had parted ways in order to prepare for dinner, or at least that was what Arthur had assumed from the fact that he couldn't find Alfred anywhere when he himself had made it through the front door. Arthur had changed into a more comfortable set of clothes and had donned a thick robe that he had found neatly folded on the foot of his bed. He had helped himself to it, and if, it turned out, the robe wasn't meant for him, then they could blame whomever had put it there in the first place. Arthur had always been better at doing then asking for forgiveness later, rather than the other way around.

Oswald dropped by and accompanied him to the main dining room. Arthur was still having trouble with the layout of the house, but he was sure that given a few more days, he'd have the plans known so well that it'd seem like he'd been the manor's architect himself.

When Arthur entered, Alfred was already seated, one hand gripping a mug of coffee, the other holding up a copy of _The Daily Telegraph_. The Marquess put the paper down, neatly folded, and raised an eyebrow, his amused smile back on as if nothing had occurred inside that carriage.

"I was growing quite hungry, Arthur. I hope your spite for my soul doesn't involve starving me to death."

Arthur took a seat and decided to ignore that comment. He was still a bit confused and unnerved at how quick Alfred could change moods. It was annoying to have the man hide so many secrets. Then again, this was a professional relationship, and as thus, secrets weren't part of the deal. Trust wasn't even part of the deal, even though this specific job required at least enough trust in each other to know that the other person would keep quiet about important matters.

"I'm sorry I took a while to get here. I'm still learning the layout of the manor."

Alfred chuckled. "Just wait until you see the Bennington mansion. The place is practically a castle." It was the reason that the Bennington Ball was one of the most popular start to the season events. The main ballroom could hold a large amount of people, and there were four different dining rooms, all of which housed long tables that could probably entertain the whole English cavalry.

The food was brought out, this feast as lavish as the last. Arthur was sure he'd never get tired of the food in this household; chef Tino was highly talented, to say the least. Arthur hadn't known that lamb could be so utterly soft that it practically melted in one's mouth.

As they ate, they made small talk. Much like last dinner, the conversation was light and didn't extend beyond a few teasing jabs at Arthur's performance that night or the contents of the day's paper. When asked why Alfred took the time to read such a middle class newspaper as _The Daily Telegraph_, Alfred simply replied that it was interesting. He also added something about being a good aristocrat and how that meant he should know the affairs of all societal levels, rather than just his own. Arthur had never thought about that, yet the way Alfred had said it made it seem so natural. Of course it made sense, and though Alfred had said that it was "every aristocrat's practice," Arthur begged to differ. The young actor was sure that the Marquess was the outlier in this case, and it made his regard toward the man soften just a little bit more.

When the servants had cleared away the dishes, Alfred stood up.

"Ready?"

Arthur looked up from studying the leaf pattern at the bottom of his tea cup. He didn't believe in fortune telling, but the interesting shapes had always interested him in a way he couldn't explain.

"Ready for what?"

"Your ballroom dancing lessons," Alfred replied. Without waiting for Arthur to follow, the Marquess then started for the door. Arthur dashed after him, not quite ready to get lost just yet.

"Stop doing that," Arthur muttered when he had caught up.

"Doing what?"

"Acting as if I will naturally follow you whenever you leave someplace before I do. Stop it." Arthur hesitated, remembering who he was talking to. "Please. If I may request it."

Alfred chuckled. "It doesn't sound like a request."

Arthur frowned. "Well it is."

The Marquess raised an amused eyebrow and turned to look at Arthur. "And is that a 'request' for me to believe you?"

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again after a moment's thought. His cheeks flushed red. What could he say?

Luckily, he was saved from replying by Alfred opening the door to what Arthur assumed was the ballroom. It wasn't as spacious as he had imagined one would be, but it was decently sized. Tall windows extended far up the wall all the way to the ceiling, where a glass chandelier hung in all its glistening glory. There were decorative pillars between the windows, which lent the illusion of great height to the room. If Arthur didn't look, he could almost imagine Heaven floating high above the heavy Prussian-blue drapes.

Alfred turned around toward Arthur and grinned. "Don't worry so much, Arthur. You simply _cannot_ be so formal with me. We are to be betrothed at some point, remember?"

That made Arthur's already flushed cheeks redden even more. He had tried to avoid the thought of that as much as he could. The vague, grey lines of their relationship still frightened him, and he was hanging precariously close to sinning by taking on this job. Did God care for technicalities such as intention or reason, or was a kiss still a kiss, no matter what it was for? Arthur hadn't lived perfectly this far just to be damned to Hell for this reason. Thus, he liked to think that God appreciated the theatrical arts too.

"I couldn't forget it if I wanted to, Alfred."

The Marquess nodded. "Good. Now!" He clapped his hands together. "Do you know anything about dancing?"

Arthur averted his eyes to the ground. "Only enough to act like I know how to while I'm on stage," he admitted.

Alfred laughed, which made Arthur look up angrily. The man had no right to be laughing at Arthur's inability to dance. It wasn't his fault that he had been born into the lower class, after all.

"Hey," he snapped, figuring that he would take to heart the advice to not be formal with Alfred, "I wasn't privile—"

Holding up his hands defensively, Alfred replied, "I know, I know. I wasn't laughing at you. You have my word, Arthur." Seeing the young actor's skeptical look, the Marquess added, "Really. I mean it. I was laughing because I was thinking about what a joy it would be to teach you, then, if you don't know anything to begin with."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Teach me? _You?_"

"There is no one else in this room, as far as I can perceive."

The young actor was mortified. Alfred himself was going to do the teaching? The thought disturbed Arthur to no end. Just the mere idea of dancing with Alfred gave him odd shivers. _Definitely shivers of fear_, he concluded. After all, Alfred could slip him some drug or stab him to death with that proximity, especially in a room all to themselves.

"Why must it be you?"

Alfred frowned. "Why should it not be me? After all, if we are to dance together at the ball, we might as well learn each other's way of movement, right?"

The Marquess's expression shifted from confused to sly. "Or is it that I give you the shivers when we are... _close_?" He whispered that last word seductively.

Arthur stammered, "N-not in the slightest!" Sure, he got chills, but they weren't chills of attraction, that was for sure. His reaction, however, made Marquess Jones throw his head back with laughter, which annoyed Arthur enough for him to get back to his regular self.

"Do you even have the proper credentials?" Arthur asked, crossing his arms.

Alfred settled down from his laughter and bowed deeply. "Alfred F. Jones at your service, Mr. Kirkland. Some have ventured to call me the best dancer the Bennington Ball has ever seen."

Arthur gave Alfred a once-over. "Really..."

The Marquess feigned offense. "I am wounded that you should not think so."

The young actor shrugged. "To be honest, I've never seen you dance. Thus, I cannot yet pass judgment."

"Well, that should be remedied soon enough. We shall start with my specialty, then"—Alfred's eyes twinkled—"the waltz."_  
_

The Marquess stepped closer and suddenly took Arthur's right hand in his left. The young actor's eyes widened. His hands naturally assumed the correct dancing position without thought, as he had at least covered this much in stage acting before.

The young actor fretted a little. Arthur decided that it was just unnerving to see Alfred's handsome face up so close. The Marquess's cheeks held flawless skin that many a woman would die for. His nose curved perfectly at the tip, and slanted just enough to be considered regal but not haughty. He had no beard, which was against the fashion these days, yet Arthur couldn't imagine him with one. It'd be a shame to cover up that smooth, slightly emphasized jawline, after all.

"W-we have no music," the young actor stuttered.

"There is no need for it," Alfred replied, his breath grazing Arthur's skin. That made the young actor _very_ uncomfortable, but Alfred didn't seem to notice, as he proceeded right into teaching.

"We're going to go in a slight box formation first, and we will not deviate until you at least have that mastered," Alfred explained. "Now, ease that right foot back... that's right. And now pull your left foot back and over to the side—no, no, not like that. Drag it. Yes, _yes_. Like that! Close it with your right foot. Again, _drag_..."

Arthur was very busy looking at his feet as he pretended to listen. He didn't actually need to, considering that a box formation waltz was something he already knew, but it helped him concentrate—and it also hid the majority of his skin from that warm, caressing breath, which was getting on his nerves. It made him shiver, and he wasn't even cold. Now _that_ had to be witchcraft of some sort.

Alfred's voice was also very mesmerizing. It was resonant yet not too deep. The man probably sang tenor quite well, and might even have some skill as a contratenor, though that was a bit more unlikely.

Arthur closed his eyes as he listened to the lilting tones of that high class British. Some small part of him had the mind to notice that Alfred hadn't actually spoken in an American inflection all day. He was guarding his accents more closely than before, which made the actor a little disappointed. He realized he _liked_ Alfred's British when it was tinged with a small amount of American. It made the man unique, much like so many other things Arthur had had a chance to notice over the past week. It made Alfred... human.

"... Ar... Arth... Arthur."

The actor blinked and realized that he was looking right into those piercing blue eyes. "Wha...?"

Alfred laughed lightly. "You were staring. Am I really that attractive?"

Arthur snapped out of it and averted his gaze, almost tripping over Alfred's foot as he lost the rhythm for a moment. "You could only wish it were so," he replied darkly, hoping that Alfred could not see his crimson cheeks from that angle.

The Marquess leaned in closer. "Really, now? You seem somewhat hot and bothered," the man joked.

Arthur shot Alfred a murderous glare. "That seems _highly_ inappropriate, Marquess."

Alfred smiled, but nodded in concession and backed off. "You're right. You have my sincerest apologies." Arthur couldn't help a small, highly unfeminine snort. That had sounded about as sincere as a Frenchman calling Rhone wine "foul spirits."

"You make devils look like they're honest," Arthur muttered, his light-headedness disappearing a little.

"My, my, someone's getting quite comfortable already," Alfred replied. "Who knew you would be so ready to insult your fiancé when he gave you the chance?"

"Sorry," Arthur replied, truly apologetic, though still annoyed. It was easy to forget that he was speaking to an actual nobleman sometimes. Alfred just seemed so naturally human at times like this. Was that good, or bad?

The Marquess laughed his bright, resonating laughter. "As I said, do not be apologetic for your ways. It pleases me that you can show me you dislike me so."

_That's not true_, Arthur thought immediately, and part of him wanted to argue back. Yet, he stopped himself because, honestly, was that true? Did Arthur dislike the Marquess? Did he not? Arthur still didn't know how he felt about this energetic and flamboyant nobleman. It was really only the first real day into their relationship, and yet Alfred was already chipping away at Arthur's hardened definition of an aristocrat. Arthur had to give it more time and more thought before he could decide.

Alfred started dancing a bit more elaborately, with wider steps, gradual rotation, and even a couple reverse cortes and twirls. However, with the Marquess's expert guidance, Arthur didn't even notice the change. They danced without music for quite a while, engaging in small talk about what Arthur had learned that day so far. The young actor took it as an opportunity to try to forget about the oddity of dancing without accompaniment, and he learned that if he stared _past_ Alfred at whatever was behind the man, his concentration actually stayed with him quite well.

As they talked, Arthur grew gradually more comfortable. Alfred just had a way of relaxing the people around him, and he always knew what to say to ease people's minds. He was actually very nice and quite attentive, once Arthur got past the occasional teasing and flirting. Arthur tried to test the man with facts from Ms. Johnson's history lesson, and Alfred had answered all the trivia questions perfectly. Sometimes, he even added more facts of his own in there to boot.

Marquess Jones was actually quite intelligent, Arthur realized. Alfred never looked like it because he seemed like such a smug bastard most of the time, but this conversation had allowed Arthur to peer into this more interesting side of the Marquess. Alfred, too, seemed to be highly bored by history and politics, and he had made Arthur comfortable enough that the young actor had even cracked a few jokes about various counts and dukes, over which the both of them had laughed heartily.

Arthur didn't know how much time had passed before Alfred finally slowed down and broke away. The young actor had actually gotten used to the proximity, and now felt awfully cold standing there with Alfred a couple feet away instead.

"I thought you had said that you didn't know much dancing," Alfred murmured.

"I don't," Arthur replied, bunching up his robe a little bit closer to his body.

"Well, you could have fooled me. We waltzed through everything my dancing master had ever taught me."

Arthur blinked. "Really?"

"You didn't notice?"

A warm blush graced the young actor's cheeks. "Not particularly..."

Alfred chuckled. "Victory. _Now_ do you believe that I'm a fantastic dancer?"

The young actor scowled. "I will concede, Marquess Jones, that you are better than I had anticipated."

Truth be told, Arthur was actually very surprised. He had barely even noticed the step changes, and when he had, he had attributed them to some change in the speed or some turn to refreshen the scenery, not completely new dance steps. Of course, there were twirls and turns thrown in there, but honestly, with the sure hand that had guided his back, those had come easily too. Alfred was as good as he had made himself out to be. Perhaps this man wasn't arrogant. Maybe he simply knew himself very well.

"Only that? Then I'll have to prove to you my true prowess come tomorrow," Alfred promised, his eyes mischievously gleaming.

... Nope. Alfred F. Jones was as arrogant as they came.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Hey guys!

First off, the quote up top is one of my favorites. The Hitchhiker's Guide series isn't one that I particularly like more than any other, but that quote is irresistible. And Douglas Adams is awesome.

Second, I hope you guys got the chapter title reference. "Anastasia" is one of my all time favorite movies, and I've memorized all the songs (and practically all the dialogue as well, come to think of it). "Learn to Do It" is something that I sing almost every morning in the shower, I'm not gonna lie. And it's so perfect for this situation! I mean, actually. Not only is Arthur learning about some noble's history that he's never known before that he's supposed to then become, but also Alfred had learned the majority of this himself. Hence, "if I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it." Look at the lyrics if you don't know what I'm talking about. And then watch the movie. Please.

Hmm... Other than that, I guess I really enjoyed writing this chapter. It was difficult because of the greater amount of dialogue, but it was also fun _because_ of the greater amount of dialogue, you know? I enjoy having them talk to each other, whether or not they're arguing, or having a serious conversation, or making Arthur confused, etc. Poor him. It's only a day into the job and he's already so confused as to how he regards Alfred. He thought he'd come in hating the man, but by the end of the first day, he's sort of softening up—and we all know that's not what he wants (or is it?).

The next chapter should cover the ball, and it'll be my first time writing Arthur as Lady Percy. You know I did that for the sake of _Henry IV, Part I_, even if Alfred hadn't intended it (or maybe he did, who knows?). I love that play a lot, and it'll always hold a special place in my heart.

That's basically all there is for now. As is always, your reviews are highly appreciated, and oftentimes, they're what keep me going and motivated to write the next chapter. Suggestions for plot events as well as improvement points are always welcome. I appreciate all the time that you take reading my fic, so thank you.

Best regards,  
Gal

P.S. Really. Watch "Anastasia." Even if you've already done so, watch it again. It's totally worth it. Or at least listen to "Learn to Do It." It's so beautiful.


	6. Love at First(ish) Sight

_"The one charm about marriage is that  
it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties.__"_

- Oscar Wilde -

* * *

**.: 5. Love at First(ish) Sight :.**

* * *

The next week passed by faster than either men had anticipated. Arthur was working hard on his aristocracy studies by day and performing to his heart's content by night. Arthur assumed that Alfred had cleared up the matter of actual school, considering no one had came around asking after the young actor after he just mysteriously stopped attending. Arthur regretted not having had a chance to say farewell to his school friends, but then again, he hadn't had many to begin with. And they didn't seem to miss him anyway.

Alfred was quite busy himself, making sure Arthur's studies were sufficient, ensuring all the clothing got tailored, and attending to plenty of other matters in general preparation for the ball. He rushed around constantly, writing letters, delivering them, visiting people, etc. That half-written letter to his father had also been finished and delivered along with the rest, though Alfred had yet to receive anything in return.

When other members of the aristocracy questioned his sudden burst of activity, Alfred just replied, with his classic wolfish smile, that he was very excited for the oncoming season. He told them that he had decided it was finally time to get serious about marriage, which left many a mother overjoyed. The Dukedom of Devonshire held a substantial amount of wealth, after all, even among the nobility.

Because of their schedules, Alfred and Arthur rarely encountered each other throughout those days. Before actually working together, Arthur had assumed that Alfred was a lazy narcissist, like all other aristocrats he had ever encountered or heard about, but it turned out to be quite the opposite. Alfred was usually up and about before Arthur even got out of bed—and that, in itself, was early already. When Arthur had asked Oswald about the Marquess's unusual hours, the butler merely replied that it was indeed Alfred's regular schedule—though it hadn't been this way for Alfred's whole life. The Marquess simply had difficulties sleeping in recent years, and on some nights actually never went to bed at all.

Arthur, as always, had wanted to ask further questions, but had been cut off at that point by Countess Héderváry's grand entrance. She had waltzed in, pan held high, commanding Arthur to get right to work on their lesson that day, which covered posture, formal introductions, and giggling. _Giggling_. He often wished Countess Héderváry would extend some of her supposed "doting love for Elizabeth" to the actor behind the name, but the Madame was strict as always, and her pan always loomed over with its own watchful eyes. Needless to say, Arthur had had better days.

Despite his busy schedule, Alfred always came back in time for dinner each night. He looked perfect and put together every time, but occasionally, Arthur thought he saw bags under the man's eyes, or witnessed him rub his temples as if he had a blaring headache. Arthur generally dismissed those moments as imagination, for they disappeared as fast as they came.

Over dinner, they would often talk about what Arthur had learned that day from his two lessons. Alfred was surprised that the young actor could learn so much so quickly, for Arthur was picking up in a week what Alfred had had years to study. They took turns questioning each other, Arthur trying to find a loophole in Alfred's knowledge while Alfred tried to help rehearse what Arthur had learned. They rarely succeeded in stumping each other, which grudgingly raised Arthur's impression of the Marquess by a very small amount.

Alfred also kept Arthur in the loop about middle and lower class affairs, the very idea of which the actor found very odd. Never in his life did he think he'd get his outside world information from a nobleman—or that lower class affairs would be considered part of the "outside world" in the first place. He didn't forget about his parents or his origins, of course—for one didn't just forget about the past twenty-two years of one's life in the span of week—but he had to admit that the majority of his day was spent thinking as an aristocrat, and that affected his day-to-day view.

Arthur kept his parents in mind, and intended to write them at some point, but honestly, he had no idea what he would say. He couldn't lie to them, yet he _definitely_ couldn't tell them the truth. Thus, he simply ignored the matter and delved into his studies and performances even more. He had time to think about that later.

Ballroom dancing lessons also became more tolerable for Arthur as time passed. Of course, Alfred continued to tease Arthur at every opportunity, and he was still his usual egotistical, annoying self, yet Arthur had quickly come to learn that dancing relaxed the Marquess—in a way that the man himself didn't seem to notice. Alfred's smiles seemed less strained when they danced, especially when they waltzed—not that his smiles regularly seemed strained anyways, come to think of it. But it was nice to see this subtle difference, and Arthur felt a bit special that, as far as he knew, he was the only one to witness this other side of Alfred.

There were even those occasional times while they danced when Alfred laughed—_truly_ laughed. It wasn't his attention-grabbing bellowing laugh, or his condescending overly sophisticated laugh. It was a genuine laugh—the same one Peter had when Arthur and he reminisced over trivial fights they had in the past, or the same one children uttered when they ran around chasing each other in the streets, or even the same one Arthur found himself occasionally laughing in return to Alfred's more natural self. Needless to say, those ballroom lessons were fast becoming a favorite for the both of them. (Well, in Arthur's opinion, it was merely the least annoying and most tolerable part of the day; Alfred was still an overly rich, self-righteous bastard, as far as Arthur was concerned).

Alfred spent a lot of time thinking on Arthur over the week, especially every night after their dance lessons. When in the privacy of his own room, relaxed by the fire with a glass of good wine, Alfred liked to fancy that this was Esmeralda's parting gift to him—that somehow Esmeralda had passed on that ring with the knowledge that it'd bring them together someday.

Nevertheless, Alfred was very thankful to the woman regardless of her intention behind giving Arthur the ring. The Marquess had always believed that he didn't deserve Esmeralda's friendship and kindness, and maybe that was the reason he eventually began opening up a little to the emerald-eyed actor—without even realizing it. It was like some sort of compensation for the error of his old ways.

It hadn't escaped Alfred's notice that toward the end of the week he had started to soften a little when it came to Arthur and Arthur-related matters. The actor was just far too amusing and entertaining, and his reactions often had Alfred choking back laughter. In a frustratingly boring aristocratic life, such entertainment was hard to find.

Thus, Alfred took more liberties as time passed. He teased Arthur more and pushed Arthur more—to the point where Alfred hadn't even realized that he had started regarding the actor as just a _little_ more than simply a form of entertainment. Arthur was slowly evolving into a friend.

Of course, Alfred was fully aware of Arthur's feelings on the matter of their relationship. Arthur made it perfectly clear every time they were together that he hated the Marquess. If those glares and growls didn't convey the message, then Arthur's constant snapping and angry remarks were reminder enough. This didn't sadden the Marquess one bit, for as he had mentioned before, he appreciated that Arthur could be so open with his dislike for the nobility—and by extension, his dislike for Alfred. It lessened the possibility for complications within their professional relationship. He had been completely honest when he had decided that all he needed was Arthur's acting skills (and entertaining qualities, of course). Alfred Jones did not need a friend, and Lord knows he didn't need a lover.

It also helped that Arthur had gotten quite comfortable quite fast with regards to expressing his inner emotions, for by the end of the week, he had all but stopped calling Alfred "sir," even by accident. He no longer apologized for snapping either, especially after he learned that Alfred wouldn't retaliate; the Marquess would usually just laugh, which in turn made Arthur snap even more.

Arthur had also started to practice his Elizabeth Percy act whenever he could. His clothing had arrived the morning after his measurements had been taken, and it had come in packages upon packages—so many that it had taken a few hours to unwrap and hang them all up.

The clothing Alfred had ordered was elaborate, to say the least. There were vibrant blues and deep crimsons, lacy frills and curly ribbons, gold embroidery and silver lining—to name just a few aspects. Arthur was sure that he had never even seen that much fabric in one place, let alone own such a sum himself. Although it should have pleased him, in honesty, it angered him to see such wealth, as it often did whenever Alfred flaunted his riches. A room to sleep in was nice, but a whole manor? A mode of transportation was appreciated, but a gold-lined carriage? And of course, clothing was a necessity, but enough to fit a wardrobe that was larger than Arthur's old apartment? All of it was far over the top, and it was in those moments of unnecessary excess that Arthur found himself wondering just why he had ever found the Marquess remotely tolerable in the first place.

From that day forth, Arthur had been dressed as a lady far more than as a man. His new maid, Belle Fournier—also Elizabeth's new public "companion when the Countess herself could not attend—had the job of preparing Arthur every morning. The young actor liked to think, however, that he knew women's clothing well enough to accomplish the task himself, considering the countless times he had already worn equally elaborate pieces on stage.

Thus, he had argued against the need for an actual maid. Yet, Alfred had said it was completely necessary and normal for a noblewoman. And anyways, Belle didn't seem to mind one bit that Arthur was male. In fact, she seemed to find the whole situation quite amusing, and delighted in preparing Arthur every morning.

Thus, every day, Arthur found himself in an uncomfortably tight corset, stuffed up for the "bosom effect," as Alfred liked to call it. Then he still had to don various layers of women's dress until they got to the frilly gown itself. He spent at least two and a half hours every morning getting everything done from picking out clothing to fixing up hair, and that was with Belle diligently working her hardest. Honestly, how did aristocratic women live their lives? If it weren't for the hefty sum of money Alfred was paying, and the thrilling challenge of the task, Arthur wouldn't have put up with any of it.

Nevertheless, as Fate had it, Arthur spent his days being Elizabeth Percy and his nights being Second Fairy and Juliet. His after-performance time at the manor was the only time he could actually relax and be himself, for changing back into Elizabeth was honestly too much of a hassle at that point. Thus, the young actor went to dinner and ballroom dancing lessons dressed in much looser men's attire (which he had come to appreciate much more now that he had tasted the vengeful sting that was a noblewoman's corset). And because Alfred was generally absent except for at those times, the Marquess actually never had the chance to see "Elizabeth Percy" until the Bennington Ball itself—which, before either could realize it, was tomorrow.

* * *

"You 'aff to keep still," Belle insisted in her soft, Belgian accent as she fixed yet another pin into Arthur's stack of blond hair. Arthur still hadn't gotten comfortable with the idea of a female maid waiting on him, but Alfred had given him no way out of it. Nevertheless, despite his grudging agreement, he couldn't help fidgeting and shifting whenever Belle got too close or ended up seeing more of a man's skin than she ever ought to.

When Arthur had first mentioned the outrageous notion of a woman dressing a man, in an effort to argue against Alfred's insistence on a maid, Belle had spoken up and commented that she had seen in her life far more than anything Arthur was in danger of showing. It shocked Arthur that a woman of her class would speak so boldly about such delicate matters, especially as a veiled mock insult to boot. But he had fast come to learn since then that Belle was a different sort of gal. She was caring and diligent, like high class women were supposed to be, yet she was also very opinionated and stubborn. And she was smart.

Belle had told Arthur that from a young age, she had dreamed of being a politician. But of course, such intelligence was frowned upon in women, for those subjects were meant for men's circles only. Coming from a lower class background where people were too worried about how to get by to care as much about who was smart and who wasn't, Arthur felt a little disturbed by that fact. He himself had always found intelligence attractive, and Arthur liked to believe that whatever woman he ended up marrying would be smart enough to actually hold conversation beyond the day's weather and the gossip of the town. Didn't other men get bored of constant subservience? Maybe it was because Arthur's own mother was so confident and multi-talented that he felt this way, but nevertheless, it didn't change the fact that Arthur was sure the world would be a better place if women were allowed more liberties. Plus, he'd be in many less corsets, and that was a very welcome notion.

"If you move any more, I will 'aff to tie you down." Belle had undone one of the curls and was in the process of pinning it back up.

Arthur blushed. There she went again, using ridiculously unfeminine language and insinuating preposterous ideas. Belle might have acted kind and gentle like a noblewoman, but her mind was a completely different animal.

"There. Now I just need to put in ze 'air decorations, and then you will be ready to depart." Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes. As simple as those words sounded, he knew from experience now that "putting on hair decorations" could take anything from ten minutes to another hour.

Sure enough, the final touch was completed forty-five minutes later, after much wincing, fidgeting, and cursing (from Belle, whom Arthur had learned had quite a colorful vocabulary and who wasn't afraid to use it when the occasion arose).

The hairdo was far more elaborate than anything the young actor had worn before, and he felt very precarious as he took some test steps around the room. Now he finally understood why Countess Héderváry had made him practice, for countless hours, walking with _Jane Eyre_ and _The Aeneid_, among other even thicker tomes, balanced on his head. If it weren't for that, Arthur was sure he'd be swaying under the weight of this elaborate do. How did women put up with this? The young actor hoped that it felt better as real hair than it did as a wig, but somehow he doubted that was the case.

Countess Héderváry was waiting in the drawing room when Arthur entered with Belle by his side.

"Oh, you look absolutely fantastic!" she cried, jumping up from her seat in excitement. Of course, Arthur usually witnessed such excitement as passion for his own torment during lessons, so this change took him by surprise.

"W-what?"

"Don't dribble," she admonished, hands on hips, eyes suddenly narrowing. This was more like the Countess Arthur knew and loved—well, knew.

Arthur cleared his throat. "My apologies, madame."

The Countess nodded, satisfied, and her expression broke back into a smile. She proceeded to take a quick walk around Arthur, examining Belle's handiwork. Aside from fixing something on Arthur's back, she made no other changes.

"This is incredible," she murmured to Belle, who flushed with pleasure.

"Thank you, mademoiselle. There is nevertheless still much to be improved upon," the Belgian replied humbly, having been told to not call Madame Héderváry "countess" at their first encounter—which was only a few days ago.

Although Belle was humbly putting down her work, Arthur had to agree with the Countess on this one. He had taken a glance at himself in the mirror earlier, and had then been unable to stop looking as he passed by various polished surfaces in the hallway. The transformation was magical. Arthur had seen himself in women's dress plenty of times before, but not like this. There was no trace of maleness whatsoever in his visage, and his figure looked the perfect image of sophisticated yet sweet. Arthur wouldn't have recognized himself had he not known it was his own face reflected back at him. Such was the extent of Belle's skill. No wonder Alfred had insisted that it be this woman specifically who took up the post as Arthur'd maid. She was a fashion and make-up extraordinaire.

When Countess Héderváry was satisfied with her examination, Arthur—well, Elizabeth—was led out to the carriage awaiting outside. It was painted a delicate silver which shone beautifully in the setting sun. Black trimmings twirled and twisted like branches up the sides to join the dark, vaguely gothic spikes at the top. This beauty of a vehicle was the Countess's own, which they were using in order to uphold Elizabeth's backstory.

Elizabeth stepped gracefully up and seated herself by the window within the cavernous carriage. She was just settling in her seat when she gave a feminine gasp of surprise (for Arthur had already began his act). Across from Elizabeth Percy was a man whom she had ever yet to meet. He wore thick wire-rimmed spectacles with actual lenses—a rare sight in public this day and age—and had very neatly trimmed light brown hair. His features were prominent yet delicate, like his thin nose and pointed chin. Most striking of all, however, was his demeanor. He was smiling at Elizabeth, but in a completely opposite manner from Alfred's beaming looks that bordered upon grinning. The man was visibly shy, and thus, his smile was barely an up-quirk of his lips.

Countess Héderváry stepped in and settled down beside Elizabeth. She laughed at the sight of the two of them.

"Elizabeth, you've yet to meet my husband, have you? Allow me to introduce him to you. This is Roderich Edelstein, Graf von Latour of Austria. When we married, I insisted on keeping my maiden name for unofficial matters, which is why you know me as Elizaveta Héderváry instead."

Elizabeth glanced between the two of them. She could not believe that the Countess was married, yet it made sense now that she knew. A lady of Madame Héderváry's age, which Elizabeth guessed was about twenty-seven, could not be unwed and still be accepted in polite society.

"I am honored to make your acquaintance," she murmured, doing her best to curtsy gracefully while being seated in a moving vehicle.

"The honor is mine," he replied in a gentle voice, with an accent Elizabeth assumed was Austrian. Count Edelstein took off his top hat and bent at the waist, his cheeks flushed with some sort of embarrassment which Elizabeth could not comprehend.

"See, Roderich? Did I not tell you she was a beauty? She has the skills to match, as well," the Countess purred with pride.

"I am sure she does," Count Edelstein replied, still looking vaguely uncomfortable. It left the ever-curious actor wondering why the man kept glancing in his direction with his cheeks rosy pink. Of course, Elizabeth, with her demure and unassuming self, felt no curiosity whatsoever—just worry.

"Are you well, Count Edelstein?"

The Graf von Latour stiffened and glanced out the window briefly before opening his mouth to reply. Before any sound could come out, however, Madame Héderváry waved a dismissive hand and cut him off.

"Don't worry yourself, dear," she commented to Elizabeth with a knowing smile. "My husband just doesn't do well with _men_ like you."

Arthur's heart sped up in surprise. He hadn't known that the Count was in on the secret as well, though honestly, it made perfect sense. After all, Elizabeth was supposed to have been living with the both of them, but with just the countess. Nevertheless, was there anyone left in the world who _didn't_ know?

Elizabeth's brows faintly furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, madame? I am a lady, as far as I have ever known," she insisted, possibly a bit too strongly. Countess Héderváry chuckled and gave Elizabeth a vaguely unladylike wink.

"_Exactly_."

Elizabeth's confused expression deepened for a moment before her eyes widened. Arthur's cheeks reddened as it dawned on him. Did the Count think that because of his acting, Arthur 'fell the other way'? That was preposterous, and he wanted to deny it, but that involved getting out of the act, which his mind was bent on not doing. Once Arthur started acting, he wouldn't stop until the job was done. Thus, he spent the rest of the carriage ride making small talk with the Countess as his mind hung on that looming fact. At least the Count seemed to soften a bit, though maybe his occasional input into the conversation was more out of politeness than anything else.

* * *

"Announcing: Count Roderich Edelstein, the Graf von Latour of Austria, and his wife, Countess Edelstein. Accompanying them, the honorable Lady Percy, of the House of Percy." Elizabeth had earned her title of "Lady" from her late father, even if she had nothing else to her memory of them besides that.

The page bowed deeply in respect, and the Count tipped his hat in return. Then, after offering his arm to his wife, the Graf von Latour proceeded through the grand doorway into the main ballroom, with Elizabeth a few steps behind.

Elizabeth thought she could feel eyes trailing after her as she followed the Count and Countess, though whenever she looked, everyone always appeared to be deep in conversation. She wrote it off as imagination and nerves. After all, this was the first ball of her coming out season; excitement and anxiety were to be expected.

Lady Percy periodically stole glances at her surroundings, trying to take in the breathtaking scenery while keeping a calm and dignified façade. It wouldn't be a good first impression if she were caught gawking.

The hall they had entered was grand... No. That was an understatement. It was utterly magnificent. Elizabeth was sure that she'd be hard pressed to find another ballroom so breathtaking anywhere but perhaps at Buckingham Palace itself. The windows were thin and tall, their edges rimmed with white wood so simple that everything else stood out extra in comparison—especially the elaborate chandelier that was obviously meant to be the center of attention. The infinite shards that hung in midair twinkled like stars as they reflected light from all directions. That effect, in addition to the ceiling and walls being painted a dark midnight blue, made Elizabeth feel as if she had just walked out into a countryside courtyard, rather than into a dance hall.

There were white-draped tables at the edges of the room, where the older, frailer nobles gathered to reflect on old times and discuss the lives of their grandchildren. The middle of the hall was a clear space where Elizabeth guessed the dancing would later occur. However, as of that moment, the space was occupied by the younger members of society, who were mingling and being introduced to one another. After all, the Bennington Ball was the first of the season for many girls new to the scene, not just for Elizabeth Percy.

The middle also held many already married men who were accompanied by their wives as they stood around discussing politics, international affairs, and many other more intellectually stimulating subjects. There were faces from all over Europe, or so Elizabeth guessed based on skin tone and the accents she could overhear. The Countess had mentioned in the carriage that this ball was possibly the most important one of the start of the season, and thus many made it their duty to attend. It also widened the range of eligible men for the countless unmarried ladies present.

Elizabeth couldn't help flitting her eyes over the many male bachelors that were in attendance. She saw practically one for every type of romantic inclination. There was the outgoing boyish one with the classic combination of brown hair and green eyes, who was constantly surrounded by giggling girls; near him was the grumpy one who had his arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere than here (and perhaps it was Elizabeth's imagination, but it seemed like he was glaring daggers at those aforementioned giggling girls as well); beside the frumpy one was a ditsy looking fellow who seemed to be just staring in awe at the decor and occasionally pointing things out excitedly to that same grumpy soul. They looked like brothers, actually, though Elizabeth didn't trust her inexperienced instincts enough to assume it.

Across the hall was a dainty looking girl with short light blond hair who looked like she was in full distress in the face of such bustling activity, yet was trying her best to not let it show. Elizabeth was wholly sympathetic, for she was sure she'd have the same expression on her visage had she not been well-trained by the Countess to hide away her heart in foreign company. Lady Percy was just about to ask permission to excuse herself and befriend the hapless girl when she saw that someone had done that already. He was a brash looking young man dressed in military uniform, with blond hair a bit too long for the current fashion. Though he presented the air of someone commanding and easily angered, he actually had approached the girl with surprising gentleness. In a few moments, he even had her smiling. That put Elizabeth at ease.

"Elizabeth." The voice snapped the girl out of her observations. She turned to find that they'd stopped walking, and was now standing in front of an intimidating icy-eyed man. Those same calculating eyes were trained right on her face with an assessing look that the man wasn't even trying to hide.

"Elizabeth," the Count intoned with all the familiarity of someone who had known Elizabeth for years. His demeanor toward her had drastically changed since their time in the carriage. "I want to introduce you to the honorably knighted Sir Edward Cavendish Harrington II, Duke of Devonshire."

Elizabeth's eyes widened with surprise. She had never imagined that the first person she would meet would be someone of such fame and stature. Arthur, on the other hand, was fighting down the stage fright, which happened to all actors, no matter how good. This was Alfred's infamous father, after all, and after laying eyes upon this man, Arthur could understand why he was called the Devil Duke for battle as well as for politics. Arthur would run away too if he had to face this serious and severe man in warfare.

Elizabeth gave a deep curtsy and bowed her head. The Count continued as Elizabeth straightened up. "Duke Harrington, this is Elizabeth Percy, of the House of Percy. Elizabeth has been in my care ever since the age of ten. I have merely never brought her to these events before for fear of exposing the young child to too much too quickly."

"Hm... It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Percy." His voice was deep and rumbled like a far off storm. The Duke tipped his head in her direction, but did not bow. She was below his status, after all. "Pray tell, why are you in company of the Count, miss Percy? What of your parents?" He questioned Elizabeth directly, which was highly unexpected for the hapless girl.

Elizabeth's expression darkened for a moment before returning to her gentle façade. To others, it would seem as if a dark memory had passed fleetingly through her mind, though in reality, Arthur was just preparing his voice. It took a moment's concentration to remember just how his throat had to tighten up in the back or how his vocal chords had to interact in a much gentler yet faster manner.

"I..." she began softly, "Lady Seymour had informed me that they perished in an unfortunate coach accident when I was two years old, sir."

"Ah, I'm sorry. You have my sincerest regrets." He didn't sound apologetic whatsoever, and actually moved on quickly. "Did you say Lady Seymour, miss?"

Elizabeth looked up, wondering at the tightness she heard in the Duke's voice. "Yes, sir. Lady Mary Seymour, distant cousin of the Duke of Somerset. She cared for me when I was young."

Duke Harrington stiffened so imperceptibly that neither Elizabeth nor the Edelsteins took notice, but Arthur saw it perfectly fine. His already keen senses were exceptionally heightened by the situation. Apparently, Alfred had been right: Lady Seymour was not generally mentioned in polite society.

"I see," Duke Harrington mumured, "I was devastated to hear of her passing, though I gander that it was because of such circumstances that you fell to the Count and Countess's attentive care at all." He paused. "Fortuitous." That last word was spoken so quietly that even Arthur's own extra attentive ears barely caught it.

Arthur was busy trying to get a sense of the Duke and was getting a fast headache from the effort. The man couldn't have been more different from his son. Elizabeth's head was spinning as well, and she was finding it difficult to breathe, though for a completely different reason. Were they supposed to discuss so much of death and personal life at a first encounter? No one had warned her of how fast her first conversation could escalate.

Countess Héderváry noted Elizabeth's distress and intervened. "Let us not discuss such morbid matters further, dear Duke. This is a night of festivities, so let us forget such talk in exchange for more jovial subjects."

The Duke hesitated a moment before nodding his assent. "My apologies, Lady Percy, Madame Edelstein. I meant no offense." His shrewd eyes lingered on Elizabeth as he spoke these words.

Arthur fought the urge to squirm. Was his imagination, or was the Duke more interested and perceptive than he ought to be? Alfred hadn't warned Arthur of how smart and acute his father was—in fact, Alfred had never even mentioned his father once during the whole span of their acquaintance except for in passing at that first conversation. How odd.

"None was received, Sir Harrington," the Countess reassured.

Count Edelstein spoke, "If you could please excuse us, Sir Harrington, there are many others whom we have yet to greet."

"Of course, Count Edelstein." The two men bowed to each other, the women curtsied once again, and then they were off.

"You did well," the Countess whispered in Elizabeth's ear as they moved on. Arthur could still feel the Duke's eyes on his back, and he liked to think that Madame Héderváry meant those words for him as well. That encounter had been far too tense, and the conversation had moved far too quickly.

Luckily, the next few encounters were much lighter and more polite, which gave Arthur a chance to recuperate and Elizabeth a chance to relax. Lady Percy was introduced to a slew of counts, viscounts, dukes, earls, marquesses, their wives, and even occasionally, their children. She eventually even met Mr. Bennington, Duke of Beaufort, and his wife, who were both very regal and cordial. Elizabeth had learned extensively of those members of the aristocracy whom she met and was thus able to recognize exactly to whom she was talking before introductions had even been made. She appreciated those long and boring lessons with Ms. Johnson a lot now that all these faces and names were being thrown at her with lightning speed.

Many people raised questions about Elizabeth's sudden appearance in society, but was appeased with Count Edelstein's caring answer that he feared exposing her to so much at such a young age. After all, living with Lady Seymour didn't get you out into the world like living with the popular Count and Countess did. Madame Héderváry repeated her story that she had never intended to expose Elizabeth at all, but had grown to love the girl so much that she felt it was her duty to give the girl good prospects for marriage. Elizabeth Percy was not the first orphan—and surely wouldn't be the last—to enter into mainstream social circles. It wasn't unheard of for nobles to keep secret children or adopt another's child should circumstances call for it. Hailing from the Percy family gave Elizabeth some credit, but having nothing to her name would surely work to her disadvantage. Nevertheless, the backing of the powerful Graf von Latour was not to be taken lightly either.

Arthur was far too focused on acting and making a good impression in body language to actually think about much of anything else. Voice manipulation took a great amount of concentration to uphold without cracking, and constantly keeping up a sweet smile was starting to hurt his cheekbones. But he was thus occupied, and therefore had no opportuniy to scan the room and see if Alfred himself had made his way there.

However, his curiosity was soon appeased as they approached the base of the grand staircase. Standing with his back to the main crowd was Alfred, deep in conversation with a light haired, green eyed man who looked to be about twenty-five as well. Their conversation must have been quite amusing, for Alfred was wiping away tears of laughter when the Count and Countess approached.

Count Edelstein politely tried for Alfred's attention. "Pardon me, Marquess Harrington"—only official names for official matters, Arthur noticed—"But if I could disturb you, might I have a moment of your time?"

"Count Edelstein!" Alfred politely exclaimed when he recognized the man. Turning back to his conversation partner, the Marquess spoke, "Apologies, old chap, but we'll have to continue later." The other man nodded, bid his farewell, and left them.

Alfred turned back to the Count and Countess. His eyes passed briefly over Arthur, and it wasn't hard at all for him to feign lack of recognition. In fact, it was all Alfred could to to keep his eyes from widening at how much he _didn't_ recognize the young actor. If Alfred hadn't known of his own devious plans, he definitely would not have suspected Elizabeth of being anything other than the daintiest and fairest maiden he had ever laid eyes upon. Who knew that with just a bit of elbow grease, Arthur could clean up to be so stunning?

This plan had been crazy and quite hopeless from the start, as is any scheme to fool all of the aristocracy. But now it seemed as if they had a real shot at success. Alfred might actually be free from his father's constant pestering for marriage. He would be able to lead whatever life he wanted, if he could just pull this off. The realization that success was actually in his grasp kicked Alfred into serious acting mode.

He bowed deeply to the Count and Countess. "Count Edelstein, Countess Edelstein. To what do I owe this honor?"

Count Edelstein smiled warmly. "There is someone I would like you to meet, Mr. Harrington." The Count stepped aside so that Elizabeth could be the center of attention. "This is Elizabeth Percy. She has been in my care since the age of ten." Turning to Elizabeth, the Count continued, "Elizabeth, this Mister Alfred Harrington, Marquess of Devonshire, son of Duke Harrington, whom you met earlier."

Elizabeth curtsied gracefully, her cheeks flushed a delicate rose pink. Arthur was having some problems focusing, and such color had appeared on his cheeks because of the effort he was expending in an attempt not to gawk. Alfred was as handsome as Arthur had ever seen him. And if it was even possible, everything about the man was more perfect and in place than it usually was. Alfred's hair was brushed back neatly, his face shone from a recent wash, and his evening suit was spotless under that soft velvet jacket. Somehow he looked so much older yet so much younger at the same time.

"I am very honored to make your acquaintance, Lady Percy," Alfred murmured, in a voice that Arthur swore was purposefully seductive. The Marquess bowed, and Elizabeth noticed that he bowed until his torso was completely perpendicular to his legs, despite not having the need to do so due to his status. A pang of jealously hit Arthur, which he immediately wrote off as Elizabeth's feelings instead, even if that made no sense if he actually thought about it. Did Alfred treat all of his women like this? Did he use his charming voice to lure them in and then bow so low as to make them feel like royalty? Well Arthur didn't _feel_ like a princess, that was for sure; he just felt annoyed. _He_ was supposed to be Alfred's fiancée. Thus, the Marquess _better_ not approach other women in such an attractive manner.

"I believe I have not seen you at such social gatherings before, miss. What a loss it is to find out that I have been conversing with mere humans when there is such an angel like you to behold."

Elizabeth blushed deeper and averted her eyes. "You give me far too much credit, Marquess." Anyone could tell that she was inwardly quite happy, though. The Marquess's presence naturally put her at ease, and all the anxiety that she had collected from meeting such a slew of important people all at once melted away in moments. Was it bad that she wanted to spend more time with such a sweet and charming person?

Apparently, however, Elizabeth had no cause to fear, for Alfred smiled sweetly at her and proceeded to ask, "I hope I am not being too forward, m'lady, but I would be honored if you were to give me your first dance of the night." Alfred _was_ being bold, and they all knew it. Gentlemen did not ask for a dance upon the first encounter, let alone so early in the evening. Yet, this daring risk was what made the game all the more entertaining, right?

The Countess looked appalled, which could have been out of fear for exposure by Alfred's move, or out of acting like a worried mother. Arthur realized it was the latter, however, when the Countess actually spoke.

"My dear Marquess! It is an honor for you to have asked, but Elizabeth has yet to even meet half of the necessary nobles. I beseech you to let her rest, or else the poor girl might faint from all the excitement." Madame Héderváry was clearly having a fun time with her acting. There was a shine in her eyes that could have been taken for teary concern, but Arthur was quite sure that he knew that face well enough by now to recognize the twinkle of excitement when he saw it.

_Well, at least someone's having fun._

"It would give the other men a fair chance too, Mr. Harrington," the Count added only partially in jest. He too had a small amused smile playing at his lips. This intriguing task of acting was apparently quite entertaining to everyone involved—that is, everyone except Arthur, who was sure he was the only one who took this seriously. They were trying to fool all of the aristocracy, for God's sake; did anyone else not understand how difficult that was?_  
_

Alfred smiled harmlessly. "I apologize. I was merely struck foolish by her bewitching visage."

Countess Edelstein gave an expression of mock reprehension. "Oh, you jest too boldly, Marquess."

The Marquess laughed. "I meant every word." He then turned to Elizabeth. With a smile so sweet that it made honey seem bitter, he said, "I hope, then, m'lady, that you will at least think upon the matter."

Elizabeth paused for a moment. Did the Marquess get more and more handsome by the minute, or was it just her imagination? She looked up at Marquess Harrington through her long lashes and murmured, "I would love to." Her voice was quiet and delicate—the ideal sound to come out of any woman.

Alfred nodded and his smile widened. "Then I shall be sure to ask again as the night progresses."

Lady Percy coughed gently. "You misunderstand me, Marquess. I..." She blushed deeply and averted her eyes once again. "I hope I am not too bold in choosing to accept your request now." Arthur thought he could imagine surprise flit past Alfred's expression for just a split second, though he didn't understand why.

Both the Count and Countess turned toward Elizabeth, parental concern written all over their faces.

"Are you sure, dear?," the Countess intoned, reaching out her hand to touch Elizabeth's arm. "The Marquess is not going anywhere soon, and there are still many other people to meet."

"There is no need to rush. You still have a long night ahead and abundant time," the Count added, sounding equally worried.

Arthur felt a sudden urge to laugh, for he had never seen such a worried look on the brash Countess's face ever before. Plus, Count Edelstein's fatherly concern was so drastically different from his manner toward Elizabeth earlier in the carriage that it was utterly humorous to witness.

The young actor managed to hold his humor back, though a small smile managed to escape Elizabeth's expression. Luckily, such a sweet and gentle upturn of her lips could be easily taken as the look of budding attraction and young love, which the girl was sure to be feeling for the Marquess at the moment.

"I am sure, ma'am, sir." Even though they had insisted on it ever since she had come into their care, Elizabeth had never felt comfortable calling the Count and Countess "mama" and "papa," or any variation thereof, as she ought to.

The Countess regarded the girl a little bit more before chuckling. "Headstrong as always, I see." She smiled at her husband. "I believe it is decided, then."

Count Edelstein gave Alfred a stern look in jest. "Take care of her, Mr. Harrington. You will be the first partner she will have ever danced with beside her dance master. Such a task is not to be taken lightly." He couldn't help a small smile, however, for the irony of it; Alfred _was_ Arthur's dance master, after all. It was like some inside joke—well, it still wasn't a joke to Arthur, but even he could see some humor in the situation.

Alfred bowed deeply then straightened back up. His eyes twinkled dangerously as they lingered on Arthur's fantastically disguised face. This whole affair was going much, much better than he had ever expected. So well that it might actually _work_.

"I assure you, Count Edelstein, that I shall care for her like the jewel that she is... Like a fine... emerald."

* * *

Dinner came quickly after much talk and introductions. Elizabeth had been asked a few direct questions which she answered quietly and sweetly, but other than that, she remained quite silent and attentive as the Count and Countess did the talking for her. She was new to the scene, and thus, not many deigned to speak to her beyond anything but a greeting. Marquess Harrington and his father had by far been the most bold out of the crowd to whom she had been introduced—which was well, considering that Arthur's throat was starting to hurt already from the constant tightness—but that was nothing a little champagne couldn't change.

In fact, Elizabeth was right in the middle of taking a sip of the bubbling liquid when a voice interrupted her thoughts and observations.

"Miss Percy, was it?"

Elizabeth turned to the man sitting on her left, who hadn't spoken to her at all until then. She daintily wiped her mouth with her frilled napkin and nodded.

"Yes, sir. Elizabeth Percy."

The man smiled, showing brilliant white teeth beneath. He had deep gold hair that was slightly on the long side, but it fell gracefully enough on his shoulders that it actually looked quite nice. His chin was covered with well-kept stubble, if that was even possible.

"Enchanté, madame Percy." The man inclined his head in greeting. "Je m'appelle Francis Bonnefoy, France's chief ambassador to Great Britain."

Elizabeth tried her best to curtsy from her seat, and ended up pulling off a sort of sideways dip of her head. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance, monsieur Bonnefoy."

"I can assure you, miss, that the honor _and_ pleasure is all mine."

Elizabeth blushed. This man was quite a charmer, too; he could very well give Marquess Harrington a run for his money.

"Might I add that your French pronunciation is exquisite? Have you studied the language?"

The girl finished chewing her small bite of goose and dabbed at her lips with a napkin once again. "Je ne parle qu'un peu de francais, monsieur; I have merely dabbled. My true strength lies in"—Arthur's mind whizzed through the list of activities he could actually accomplish; virtually none of them were feminine—"spinning stories." That was borderline acceptable, and Arthur hoped it would be viewed as more imaginative and sweet rather than ditsy and unskilled.

The ambassador raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You mean you write fairytales?"

"And tell them, sir. I've been told I have quite the imagination."

The Frenchman laughed. It was a sound that sent shivers slithering up her spine. How could a laugh sound so grand yet so intimate all at once? Elizabeth wasn't sure if it made her feel highly uncomfortable or far too comfortable.

Francis replied, "I'm sure you do, Lady Percy. What an interesting skill."

Elizabeth blushed, suddenly embarrassed. She loved to tell stories about magical and mythical things, but she knew it sounded silly to everyone else. Even the Count and Countess had told her to forget that hobby and take up pastimes more befitting of a lady, rather than a little girl.

"My apologies, monsieur. I should not have mentioned something so dull."

The ambassador leaned in almost a bit too close for comfort. Almost. "I can assure you zat it is quite ze contrary, madame. It is very interesting, for it makes you unique. You are a gem among rocks."

Arthur's mind flashed back to Alfred's last words about Elizabeth and emeralds, and the blush that consequently graced Elizabeth's cheeks was solely his own. Why did Alfred need someone to act as his fiancée when he very well could snag any girl he wanted? Arthur stored away that question for further thought later on and returned his focus back to Mr. Bonnefoy, who was halfway through saying something.

"... first time at ze Bennington Ball?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Oui, monsieur. The Count and Countess had not deemed it prudent to present me until now."

Francis leaned back. "How intriguing, non? I have never seen you in my life, yet I have been to zeir estate countless times."

"I tend to keep to myself, sir."

The ambassador's eyebrows creased together. "Such a pity, Miss Percy... Many a good man has been deprived of your wonderful company, I am sure. But I am honored that I can now count myself as one of ze lucky few who have had ze honor of conversing with you."

Elizabeth blushed and turned back to her food. "You give me far too much credit, monsieur Bonnefoy."

"Oh, but I politely disagree, madame. I think I do not give nearly enough." The ambassador smiled, and Elizabeth couldn't help but smile back. What luck it was that she had landed a place right beside him at dinner. This man was so sweet and so charming—how could she not like his company?

The rest of dinner passed by as a blur for Elizabeth, who continued her conversation with Ambassador Bonnefoy far into dessert. They talked about a variety of subjects, ranging from the winery near Mr. Bonnefoy's countryside manor in France to Elizabeth's intriguing childhood. The ambassador had not even blinked an eye at the mention of Lady Seymour, and that made Elizabeth all the more grateful toward the man. It was nice to know that not everyone was so quick to be prejudiced against a woman who, as far as Elizabeth could tell, had done no wrong. She had merely fallen in love with someone unconventional, but such emotion could not be helped.

As it was nearing time to adjourn once again to the main ballroom, Ambassador Bonnefoy decided to finally make his move. Elizabeth was a stunning girl who was very sweet, interesting, and soft spoken. He was still unmarried—but that was thinking a bit too far into the future. For now, he wouldn't have minded just a few more moments in her company.

"I have thoroughly enjoyed our dinner conversation, Lady Percy."

The girl nodded and finished her champagne. "So have I, monsieur. Not many people have spoken to me quite so freely as you have, and I thank you for your kindness."

The Frenchman looked stunned. "Surely, zey do not know what zey are missing."

Elizabeth decided to be a bit witty, though she knew it was a risk coming from a woman. "Well, I cannot presume to know the minds of others, monsieur Bonnefoy." She thought that the ambassador would like her more witty and intelligent side just as well as her demure side, and she hoped she wasn't wrong.

Francis laughed. "I make no such presumption myself." He sobered up a little from his humor and turned to look Elizabeth straight in the eye. His voice suddenly got very, _very_ intimate, or so it felt to the young girl. "Pardonnez-moi, madame, but I would love to continue zis conversation further—and I hope I am not ze only one with zis sentiment... Could I have ze honor of your hand in ze first dance?"

Elizabeth was a bit woozy from the rush of blood to her head at Francis's sudden voice change to really comprehend what the man had actually spoken. That voice was like warm honey that was gently being licked off of another's skin—or maybe another's gun. It was intimate, caressing, and yet dangerously lethal at the same time, like a prowling tiger. It made her squirm, but was that out of sexual attraction or fear and the need to get away?

"W-what?" she asked ungracefully.

Francis smiled brightly, and his demeanor changed suddenly once again.

"Would you honor me by allowing me your first dance?" Here once more was the charming, outgoing and friendly man Elizabeth thought she had come to know just a little bit. The other fleeting predator side had come and gone so quickly that it was almost like something straight out of Elizabeth's active imagination.

Arthur, on the other hand, knew better. He had seen that shift in behavior as clear as day, and it made him even more cautious than he already had been. Arthur had always been suspicious of the French, even if Elizabeth had no reason to be the same. From the start of the conversation, Arthur had tried his best to balance his own suspicions with Elizabeth's sheltered naive trust of anyone and everyone, but it was a losing battle for the actor. If it had just been Arthur at the table, he might have stabbed the pretentious man by now just to force him to shut up about Alsace wine—but it wasn't Arthur at the table. It was Elizabeth, and she would accept that offer to dance no matter what, both out of want to do so and out of politeness. However, that didn't mean Arthur would go down without a fight.

Elizabeth tried her best to curtsy from her chair once again. "I am honored that you would ask, monsieur, but I have already promised the first dance to Marquess Harrington." Was it Arthur's own active imagination at work, or did Francis's eyes narrow just the slightest bit at the mention of that name?

"Ah, 'tis a pity, zen. At least allow me to take ze dance after zat, madame. S'il vous plaît." He smiled in a way that made Elizabeth completely forget about the odd change in demeanor before. She found Mr. Bonnefoy utterly charming, whereas Arthur found him gag-inducing. "Al'zough it would not surprise me if you are taken for ze entire night," he added.

Elizabeth blushed. "I assure you that I am not. No one has asked me to dance but the Marquess." Arthur gave up. There was no way he could plausibly get out of touching this Frenchman. The most he could do was to stop Elizabeth from being so eager about it. "I would be delighted to accept."

The ambassador smiled wide enough to show his brilliant teeth once again. "Géniale." He looked like he was about to say something else, but Madame Héderváry, who had been sitting on Elizabeth's other side, turned and spoke.

"I think it is about time for us to go back to the main room. If you are done, let us go, Elizabeth."

The girl nodded to her guardian and murmured something in agreement. She made to stand up and Francis rushed to pull out her chair. Elizabeth sent the man a grateful look.

"Merci, monsieur."

"Je vous en prie, Lady Percy." He let go of the chair and bowed, just as deeply as Marquess Harrington had. "I shall be anxiously awaiting, zen."

Elizabeth finally had the chance to do a real curtsy, and pulled it off with perfection and grace. The ambassador gave her a sweet smile before he departed, and that made Elizabeth all the more happy as she watched him go. As she turned back to the Countess to engage her in conversation—and possibly tell her about her latest acquaintance, considering the curious look Madame Edelstein shot her—Elizabeth could not wipe the smile off of her face. She never thought she would have two dance requests before the actual dancing had even started. Actually, to be honest, she hadn't even thought she'd have two dance requests at all. This night was already so far beyond her wildest dreams.

_Well, at least someone's happy_, Arthur thought bitterly. Even his character was having fun. Was he really the only one who was finding this whole thing taxing?

* * *

"Count Edelstein, Countess Edelstein, I trust that your dinner went well. I have come to take the honor of Lady Percy's first dance," Alfred murmured as he bowed deeply. He then turned to Elizabeth, who was seated beside the Countess. They were all gathered at one of the side tables, waiting for the violinists to tune and begin the first dance. "Ms. Percy, if I may." He held his hand out toward her.

Elizabeth had been thinking about Ambassador Bonnefoy, actually, when Alfred had first approached. But immediately upon the sight of the blue-eyed Marquess, all thoughts of other men disappeared. The Frenchman may have been charming, but Elizabeth suddenly could not remember why she had ever thought that. There was no way Francis Bonnefoy could compare to this handsome, stately man before her.

"I... Yes. Yes, of course." She stood up and smoothed out her skirt, curtsied, then took Alfred's outstretched hand.

"I will return her shortly, Count, Countess," he said to the pair, who were both beaming at Elizabeth with pride. Or maybe they were beaming at Arthur for doing such a good job so far with his acting—

No. No way would they be thinking about the hardworking actor beneath this whole affair. They probably didn't even remember him. Pompous gits.

Elizabeth was led out to the middle, where other couples were also gathering and preparing for the first dance. She was acutely aware of the Marquess's soft, gentle hand enveloping hers. He radiated warmth—both physically and emotionally. It was comforting, and it was so much more welcoming than Ambassador Bonnefoy's version of charm. Elizabeth hadn't quite known which she preferred, but standing there, at that moment, she would never trade the Marquess for anyone else in the world. She was sure of it.

"A waltz," he murmured, pulling her closer in preparation. Elizabeth's heart sped up. "Have you danced it?"

"I..." Elizabeth looked up into the Marquess's eyes and realized her mistake immediately. Maybe it really was possible to fall in love at first sight. "I..."

The Marquess's eyebrows creased with concern. "It is quite acceptable if you haven't, m'lady. We can sit this one out and return for the next."

"No, no! I assure you this is perfectly within my reach, Marquess," Elizabeth reassured. She was mesmerized... And to be honest, Arthur was too. He had thought dancing with Alfred might have been the easiest part of the night, considering how much they had practiced, but this was turning out to be the most difficult part so far. He was finding it to be almost an impossible task to keep his thoughts in line.

"Are you sure?" Marquess Harrington asked, his bleu celeste eyes scanning Elizabeth's own for a sign that something was wrong.

The girl swallowed. "I am positive, sir." The music started. And just like that, Elizabeth found herself caught up in a mesmerizing dance, effortlessly twirling across the floor. It was as close to the literal definition of "swept away" as she had ever gotten.

They made small conversation as they danced. "You dance fantastically, Lady Percy," he started. "Pray tell, who is your dance master?" Elizabeth was staring deep into those alluring blue eyes and barely had the presence of mind to keep her steps going correctly, let alone register the man's words.

_Why does Elizabeth have to be so damn attracted to him?_ Arthur thought, vaguely irritated at his inability to focus. Maybe a bit of risky wit would help. It wasn't like there was anyone listening in to them anyways.

"I do not think you would know him," Elizabeth replied, her voice just as sweet, but her eyes glinting a little with sudden confidence and humor. It was so slight that no one except Alfred would notice.

Marquess Jones didn't disappoint. He caught on quickly and sent Arthur an I'm-so-glad-to-see-you're-_finally_-deciding-to-have-fun-too look. His smile was just a bit more relaxed as he replied, "You can never know, miss. Please, tell me about him—or her. I might just know whom you're talking about."

Elizabeth fell a bit more into being Arthur as she smiled in an almost mischievous way. "If you wish, Marquess. Well, for starters, he isn't a particularly special dancer." No self-respecting woman would ever speak down about another person like that, but then again, this was no longer a woman talking. "He tends to think he is much better than he actually is." Arthur was getting back into more comfortable ground now, and was quickly regaining control over his thoughts. It felt empowering to finally have presence again—if only a little—after a night of complete acting so far.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Surely you jest, Lady Percy."

Arthur laughed Elizabeth's light laugh, but his eyes were deadly intelligent. "He would surely hope it were so. I can assure you, however, _Marquess_, that my dance master is the pure definition of overconfidence."

"And is that suited to your tastes?" His eyes turned just a little bit serious, for the Marquess was actually curious in the answer.

Arthur chuckled, his voice still as feminine as can be. "Is water suited to fire?" He couldn't help himself. "There is so much _steam_, Marquess, but that is all there is."

Alfred for a moment looked genuinely surprised, and that one moment was priceless. Arthur catalogued that image away in a permanent place he could always access for the rest of his life.

The Marquess recovered. "Steam, m'lady?" As if he didn't know. Every time he danced with Arthur, he felt something special. The actor moved so well with Alfred that it was as if they had been born to dance with each other. Maybe Arthur couldn't tell, but Alfred had danced with plenty in his life, and none had been as easy and effortless as Arthur had been.

"Surely you must know of the utter _passion_ that goes into learning the quadrille, Marquess," Arthur jested. The last time they had danced the quadrille together (a very tough act to do with only two people out of the necessary eight), Arthur had managed to trip Alfred by making him lose concentration. Of course, he didn't know how he had done that, but it had been a fantastic moment nevertheless.

The smallest amount of pink manifested upon the Marquess's cheeks. "I assure you that I have no idea what you are talking about, Lady Percy." However, he quickly changed the topic. "How have you been enjoying the ball so far?"

Arthur let a little bit of his weariness show for just a moment as he leaned just a little more heavily on Alfred's arms. They'd been here for at least four hours already, from the moment of entry to this current waltz—and there was still so much of the night to still go through. "It has been tiring," he admitted, getting a bit more serious.

"Have you found everything to your liking?" Arthur searched Alfred's eyes, feeling that there was deeper meaning behind those words. Alfred worked hard to send back wordless messages through his gaze in reply. Thus began their double conversation.

_Did you have any trouble?_

Arthur smiled sweetly. "Everything has been fantastic, Marquess. Your father was even so kind as to inquire after my upbringing." _I met him, and he's terrifying. You did not tell me he was so shrewd._

Alfred laughed. "My father cares very much about family history. Being of the ever growing House of Percy, you must interest him very much." _That doesn't matter. Did he believe you?_

"Is being of the Percy family a good or bad thing, Marquess Harrington?" _Yes, though we have to be careful. He doesn't seem to like Lady Seymour._

"It is a brilliant factor that does much to your credit, I assure you." _As long as he doesn't know, we're fine__. This night is going better than I expected._

"Then I am glad, Marquess. So very glad." _I agree._

Alfred gave Arthur a quick twirl, careful to guide him around the other couples. The way that they had been holding their conversation so far, full of smiles and laughter, would make it seem as if the two were really getting along. It would give Alfred a good reason to ask Elizabeth out for another turn on the floor later on.

Alfred asked, "Everyone else has been cordial to you, I presume?" _Did you meet anyone else noteworthy?_

"Yes, they have been utmost kind." The music was nearing its end, which gave Arthur a good reason to put on a vaguely sad expression. "Although... I've met Mr. Bonnefoy, that ambassador from France. I don't think he likes me very much." _He likes me far too much._

Alfred stiffened. Arthur shot him a split second quizzical look before his expression returned to normal. He remembered that Francis had also shown a slight reaction to the mention of Alfred's name before. Did the two have a history?

Alfred gave Arthur a reassuring look. "I'm sure he likes you just fine, m'lady. Any man would be foolish not to. If I may, my only suggestion is that you tread lightly, for he merely takes a while to open up." _Be careful. Be very, very careful.__  
_

Arthur opened his mouth to ask why, but the music stopped. It was time for the dancers to break apart and make way for those of the next round. Arthur still had much that he wanted to ask about, but now just wasn't the time. Alfred returned Elizabeth to the Count and Countess, who were eagerly awaiting back at the table.

Arthur slowly faded back into Elizabeth as he curtsied deeply. "Thank you for your advice, Marquess." _I will_. "And thank you for such a wonderful first dance."

Alfred bowed. "I should be thanking you, m'lady. I could not have hoped for a more skilled partner to start off my night, and I am quite sure that I shall find no better as the evening progresses."

Elizabeth averted her eyes to the ground, presenting the perfect balance of shy to the point of possibly being coquettish. "As always, you regard me far too highly, Marquess Harrington."

Deciding to be a bit bold and to move things along, Alfred lingered on Elizabeth's hand, unwilling to let go. He used his bowing position as an opportunity and lightly brushed her hand with his lips. "I assure you that you deserve every word of it, Lady Percy," he murmured. Straightening up, he added. "Please allow me to claim another dance later on." He let go of her hand. "Until then, m'lady, please enjoy the ball."

Elizabeth smiled warmly at the Marquess one last time before taking a seat. Arthur wasn't sure if it was him or Elizabeth that thought Alfred looked so utterly attractive as he walked away, his obviously muscled body swaying to the music of the next dance, which had already begun.

* * *

Elizabeth danced thirteen other dances before the Count and Countess decided it was finally time to leave. True to his word, Francis Bonnefoy had come to claim Elizabeth's second dance, much to the surprise—yet delight—of the Edelsteins. Who would have thought that their girl would be so popular as to have two dances in a row without rest? Little did they know, however, that Elizabeth would actually have fourteen dances in a row. Apparently, the ambassador had been talking about her wonderful company to an acquaintance of his, who then recommended that his son seek her out. That same son then spoke to a group of his friends, who from there spread the word even further.

Of course, it wasn't as if Elizabeth wasn't noticeable by herself. She was beautiful, with her tumbling golden locks perfectly framing that ever-blushing, well-proportioned face. Her words were always cordial, and her smile so sweet that it oftentimes made her dancing partners stop mid-sentence and stare. In addition, she was a phenomenal dancer, which everyone attributed to the fantastic job her dance master had done of teaching her. Arthur was sure such words had made it back to Alfred's ears, and he was dreading the gloating that would come later on. Alfred would never let it go.

Thus, Elizabeth, by just her own skills and virtues, managed to attract plenty of suitors as it was, some of which she liked, and others of which she hoped she would never have to meet again. The Viscount of Falkland, for example, who was visiting from Scotland, was a very one-sided conversationalist. He refused to stop talking about his possessions, which ranged from a full two stables of horses to a set of hats to be worn only on the first of every year. Such talk was nice and all up to a point, but even patient Elizabeth started finding such conversation taxing to listen to after a while. And of course, if Elizabeth's patience was wearing down, then it was no surprise that Arthur was utterly livid by the end of the dance. The Viscount had somehow made Alfred seem like he was the most humble aristocrat Arthur had ever encountered—and that in itself was already disturbing enough. When they finally had to break apart at the end of the dance, Arthur wished he could have personally thanked the composer of the piece for not making it a second longer.

Alfred himself was quite busy on the floor as well. Already quite popular in previous seasons, Alfred was practically swarmed by women this year, all of whom were hoping for any chance at enticing him for a dance—and many of them hoping for more than just that. After all, the news had spread like wildfire that the son of Duke Harrington was finally getting serious about marriage. No mother would sit this one out, and honestly, no daughter would let them.

Thus, Arthur and Alfred only encountered each other once more on the dance floor as part of an especially complicated quadrille. Because they weaved back and forth between partners, there wasn't much of a chance to converse like last time, and Arthur failed to question the Marquess further about his relationship with Ambassador Bonnefoy—the man who, on the other hand, managed to speak to Elizabeth on plenty of occasions that night.

Everywhere Elizabeth went, the ambassador was waiting, either to offer her a refreshment or to inquire as to whether or not he could have yet another dance—often, it was both. He was all charm and grace, though, which made her look forward to their conversations rather than tire of them or think their frequency to be odd. They talked about anything and everything, and he treated her in a way that made her feel respected. It was different than Marquess Harrington's gallant gentleman approach, which made Elizabeth feel like a precious princess. Monsieur Bonnefoy's regard toward her made her feel like a woman—mature, beautiful, and _sexy_. It was a very exciting set of feelings for a girl so young.

When it finally came time to leave, Elizabeth was worn out. She had conversed plenty and danced plenty, and was fully ready to head directly to bed. It had been a very full first day, and though it had been fun, Elizabeth found nothing more attractive right now than the idea of sleep—well, nothing except possibly Marquess Harrington, who managed to make his way over and bid Elizabeth a safe journey home before she left.

"It was a pleasure to see that you both still look so well, Count Edelstein, Countess Edelstein," Marquess Harrington spoke in greeting as he approached them. He bowed to the pair.

"You are looking spry as always as well, Mr. Harrington," the Graf von Latour replied.

Alfred smiled. "I just have a good feeling about this season, that is all." He turned to Elizabeth. "Lady Percy, I wish you the safest travels back to the Edelstein estate."

Elizabeth curtsied, not able to help her batting eyelashes. She knew she was being coquettish, but Alfred naturally made her feel shy yet flirtatious all at once. Every time they had encountered each other throughout the night, even by locking eyes in passing on the main dance floor, Elizabeth's heart had been sent into stuttering flutter. He always made her feel so special.

"Thank you, Marquess Harrington."

The Marquess flashed her one of those vaguely wild yet oh-so-princely smiles that made Elizabeth's stomach twist in knots. "I hope to see you again soon, m'lady. I have never danced with anyone more skilled than you, and I hope to have that pleasure again."

The young girl blushed. "I can assure you that you will, Marquess. I thoroughly enjoyed our time together as well."

The Count took a look at his pocket watch. "I regret that I must interrupt, but we must get going. It was very see you again, Mr. Harrington."

"Likewise, Count Edelstein. I should be off as well." He bowed one last time. "Farewell." His eyes lingered on Elizabeth as he murmured, "Thank you so much for a fantastic evening."

With that, the Marquess turned and made his way back into the crowd, presumably to find his father. Arthur was reminded that that was yet another thing he hadn't had a chance to ask about: Alfred's relationship with his parents. But before he could think on it further, he was approached by the other man that had been a very big part of his evening: Francis Bonnefoy.

"Ah, Madame Percy! I am delighted to have caught you before you left." He approached them and paid his respects to the Count and Countess before turning back to Elizabeth. "I hope I am not being too forward, madame, but will I see you again zis season?"

Elizabeth smiled. Her heart was beating quickly still, but for a different reason. She loved it when the ambassador called her "madame"; it made her feel regal and stately. "I am quite sure that we will meet again, monsieur."

"Then I shall be eagerly awaiting zat moment, Lady Percy," he murmured, his eyes narrowing into a gaze that somewhat smoldered, if Elizabeth looked directly into his eyes.

She did just that, and her blush deepened. Marquess Harrington's looks might have made her stomach twist in knots, but Mr. Bonnefoy's gazes were making other more intimate places writhe just as much. It might have offended her and scared her off, but Elizabeth had been so sheltered as a child that her curiosity was just jumping at these new sensations and emotions without heed as to whether or not she _should_ be feeling them.

"Likewise, monsieur Bonnefoy."

"Well, I wish to delay you no longer, madame." He turned back to the Count and Countess. "Thank you for allowing me to occupy so much of her time tonight, Count, Countess," he murmured.

"It was our pleasure," Countess Edelstein reassured him with a smile. She and the Count were both just very pleased and proud at how popular Elizabeth had been. They had feared that the girl would be ostracized for her odd past, but her skill and grace had erased all of that and made her quite desirable instead. They could have hoped for no better outcome.

"Until we meet again, mesdames et monsieur. Au revoir." The ambassador bowed deeply.

"Farewell, Mr. Bonnefoy," the Count replied. Francis straightened up, nodded once more as a last departing gesture, and then lost himself in the crowd.

* * *

Elizabeth's stomach was still in knots as she climbed up into the carriage, and her body was still feeling quite warm and tingly. The combination of feelings left behind by both the Marquess and the ambassador made for quite an intoxicating mix, and Elizabeth needed to lean against the window in order to support herself.

She was in love. She was sure of it. These were the feelings that she had heard about as a child. Her heart was beating fast, her breathing came with difficulty, her chest ached, and she kept feeling the odd urge to shiver as curious sensations spread throughout her body. How lucky was she that these feelings came to her after only the first ball of the season? What other girl could say that she was so fortunate? Oh, yes, this was definitely love, and as a result, she could not stop thinking about him—well... them. And therein lay her problem.

She was in love with two men at once.

Arthur wasn't far from his own problems as well. While Elizabeth was busy dwelling on those two handsome men, Arthur was doing the same, though in a completely different way.

He found it difficult to keep Alfred's handsome smiling face out of his mind, or stop hearing that infuriating chuckle that usually preceded many of the Marquess's teasing and witty comments. To be honest, the only time Arthur had had fun the whole night was when the two of them had been dancing together. It was such a turn of events that the only time the young actor could relax now was in Alfred's private presence. Two weeks ago, Arthur would have tried his best to escape any private moment with the man, but now... Now all he could remember was the strength of those arms as they supported him through complicated twists and twirls, and the comfort he felt as he was allowed to finally relax a little from his air-tight acting and just be himself. It had been the most relieving and enjoyable moment of the whole night, and now that he had time to reflect on that, he wasn't sure if he liked it or not. Having a sly aristocrat as your only ally didn't give you many prospects, after all.

And if that wasn't enough, he could still feel Elizabeth's heart pounding away at the thought of those men—no, not just Alfred; she yearned after _both_ men. Needless to say, that wasn't part of the plan.

Arthur had felt bad vibes emanating from the Frenchman ever since Elizabeth had taken a seat at that table, and had been aware of the man's presence long before Elizabeth had had any idea that he was even there. The young actor had seen those stolen glances from monsieur Bonnefoy early on, and had seen those sly eyes rake over Elizabeth's svelte form with an animalistic hunger. Ambassador Bonnefoy was like all the other stupid unmarried rich men who lusted after young flesh, and who generally achieved their goal due to connections and influence. Arthur hated those types with a passion, and had until recently thought Alfred to be part of that group too.

But now—now he was relying completely on the Marquess to get them over this latest development and get them out of trouble. Arthur was putting all hopes on the name and wealth of Marquess Harrington and the integrity and kindness of Alfred Jones.

... Well _that_ was hopeful.

Arthur sighed. What had he done wrong in life to deserve such a disadvantageous position, he wondered. Just what had he done _wrong_?

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Hello again! Between the last chapter and this chapter, I've gotten the chance to get acquainted with a few new people, and it's been very nice. You all are far too nice to me. Please, please, _please_, if you find something lacking in my writing or something you'd like to see improved, let me know. I don't bite, and the next chapter will be even better because of it. Of course, if you actually don't have anything to say on the matter of improvement, don't make something up either. That'd be weird. xD

Now, on to some comments about this chapter! First off, I don't know formal French. I know enough French to pass in France, but that's about it. And even then, it's a poor job of it. My father speaks fluent French, but not the old French of the nobility, so... Sorry if any of you real French citizens are cringing at my words. If you point something out, I'll be sure to fix it!

Second, that quote up top was far too perfect for me to pass by. I had in mind something else for the chapter, but when that gem came my way, I couldn't resist. Who cares of Oscar Wilde had meant something else entirely? I love it because in this instance, it actually can be taken quite literally, and in a completely different way. They _are_ gonna get married—well, at least, that's Alfred's long term plan (after all, one cannot just get engaged and then break it off before fulfillment)—and they _are_ both of them using deception. Ah, it fits so well it makes me cry.

Also, as some of you might have guessed, Belgium is Arthur's maid/companion. I think she fits the role well, and I've always liked her independent and opinionated yet sweet and caring self. She's also such a gossiper, so she'll be the doorway into many of the secrets of court (and courting) later on. (And no, the Viscount of Falkland is _not _Allistor. I don't have plans to include Wales, Ireland, and Scotland in here as cannon brothers (or just characters in general), and I like to think that Arthur has only one brother, and that's Peter).

With Roderich (and with a few other characters later on), I'm trying to get across the idea that homosexuality was actually more prevalent in the Victorian Era than people liked to think. Though it was illegal and was punishable by death up until the mid-1800s, a lot of activity still went on unacknowledged by society, in the aristocracy as well as in lower classes. There were male prostitutes, entertainment clubs, and private homosexual affairs (which wives either didn't know about or chose to ignore for the sake of politics).

Also, I like to refrain from using anyone's first name, except for with Arthur, Francis and Alfred, because I want to really get across the feeling of the aristocratic world: titles only; very formal. I want you to _feel _just how formal this thing is. Oh, and does it feel weird to anyone else when Alfred is referenced as "Marquess Harrington" or "Duke Harrington"? It feels so weird to me. o.o (Though whenever I reference him as Marquess Harrington, I'm doing it obviously from Elizabeth's perspective, since Arthur doesn't think of him like that).

That brings me to another point. What do you guys feel about the way I wrote Arthur/Elizabeth? Should I have stuck with Arthur the whole time, or was it nice/interesting to see the distinctive switch between the two? I just wanted to get across just how much Arthur dives into the role—so much so that he becomes the actual person. However, there are still times when the actual Arthur rises up again with his own thoughts, which are the times he breaks concentration the most. Should I continue it like that or stop and just write as Arthur? It's something new I'm trying, so I'm not sure.

Well, happy reading!  
Gal

P.S. 14,800 words? These chapters are getting longer and longer...

* * *

**(Possibly) Good Idea?**

Recently, I've been wanting to really get my writing into gear and improve the heck out of it. Thus, I got this idea a few days ago which I think works quite well, if you guys are willing to participate in it with me. I think it's sort of a win-win situation. I want to write more stories, especially one-shots. I also want interesting ideas to challenge me and expand my writing boundaries. Get me out of my comfort zone. Since my mind is generally focused on this story right now (and dabbling occasionally in my Ouran one), I have little time to actually think of other stories, especially one-shots, with which I can better my writing.

This is where you come in. Occasionally, I'll be in the mood to write something new, but I have no idea what it'll be. Thus, I'm going to post a question down here that at least involves some thinking to answer (and most likely will be about Not-So-Classic). When I get into those writing moods, I'll pick something from the answers to those questions. What I ask from you is that you review with four things:

1. The answer to the question

2. A pairing from Hetalia out of this list of characters (they're the ones I know well enough to write about, and they're all guys; sorry! I just suck at straight pairings, even in real life):  
- America  
- England  
- Scotland (err... sketchy, but I'll try)  
- France  
- Canada  
- Spain  
- Sealand  
- South Italy  
- (North) Italy (I'll try)  
- Prussia  
- Russia  
- Germany  
- Austria  
- Denmark (I'll try)  
- South Korea  
- China (again, I'll try)  
- Japan  
- Greece  
- Turkey  
- Estonia (I'll try)  
- Finland (I'll try)  
- Sweden (I'll really, really try)  
(If you don't see a character on here and you really, really want it, ask me anyways. Maybe I'm feeling especially bold that day)

3. A genre (or a combination of two, if you want to make it extra weird and tricky for me (adventure/poetry or humor/tragedy, anyone?)). I'm trying to get out of my romance/angst zone, so if you have another genre in mind besides those, feel free to give it to me; if you actually want romance/angst, that is wonderful too! The more practice, the better (and I love those two genres so much Q^Q)

4. Only **one** sentence for a storyline, idea, or summary (like: Arthur gets stung by a butterfly (even if it's weird like that, lemme figure it out. xD)). Either that or hand me a link to a short poem or a song or something like that that you want me to be inspired by. Keep in mind that I'm writing one-shots, so it's not going to be overly complicated stuff.

For all of those who get the answer right, I will put your names into a nice little randomizer, pick one, and write it! I'll be sure to post the right answer in the next chapter so that you'll know if you got it wrong, and thus should resubmit your request when the next question comes. Those of you who got it right, your requests will always be in the draw (though you can feel free to add new ones).

I hope this is a good idea! I'm actually really excited (and I totally think it works out well for the both of us, ne?)

**First Question: **As I described what Elizabeth saw at the ball when she first came in, I specifically mentioned five people, four guys and one girl. **Tell me who they are and give me a piece of their descriptions to match** so that I know you're pairing the right descriptions with the right people. It might take some guess-work, but I'm pretty sure they're obvious enough once you really think about it.

Good luck!


	7. Things Left Unsaid

_"If we knew each other's secrets, what comforts we should find."_

- John Churton Collins -

* * *

**.: 6. Things Left Unsaid :.**

* * *

Arthur was given a few day's rest before his next ball. It was supposed to be a time of relaxation and recuperation, though in reality, it was busier than ever. Arthur spent that time studying harder, practicing more, and all in all trying his best to avoid Marquess Jones.

The young actor wasn't comfortable with revealing yet what he thought to be his own mistake: Elizabeth had fallen for the wrong person—well, the right person too, but that didn't change the fact that there was still some snotty Frenchman in the mix that shouldn't have been there. Arthur knew he should have kept a better eye on her, steered her mind more, but in all honesty, when he was Elizabeth, he tended to forget "Arthur Kirkland" altogether. He used to think that was the sign of a good actor, and no one had told him otherwise in his entire career so far. Yet now, he wished he wasn't so "brilliantly skilled," as Alfred had praisingly called him the day after the ball. That comment had made Arthur feel even worse.

Part of him, the more angry and stubborn part, felt like he had the full right to tell Alfred about it and let _him_ work out the solution. The man had the money and the connections, and it was his own fault that he had chosen Arthur for the job anyways. It was the Marquess's _duty_ to face this problem and its consequences, his _job_ to shoulder some of Arthur's burden.

Yet, on the other hand, there was no way Alfred could have known that this would have occurred. As much as Arthur hated to admit it, he knew that Alfred had witnessed his acting skill and _only_ his skill so far—skill that Arthur had especially polished up for opening night of _Romeo and Juliet _just to assert his own right against the Marquess. In hindsight, that didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. Maybe Arthur shouldn't have tried his absolute best with the full knowledge that he couldn't possibly keep it up _all the time—_though in his defense, there was no way he could have known either that he'd be thrown into this dazzlingly terrifying life because of it. Nevertheless, it still stood that he had made a mistake, or several throughout the night, and now he had to fix it. He wouldn't tell Alfred, because honestly, the last thing Arthur ever wanted to be to anyone was a disappointment.

And so for the four days of rest after the Bennington affair, Arthur delved considerably into his studies. He committed to hard memory those names, family trees, titles, treaties, deeds and all other things besides. Madame Héderváry hadn't given Arthur any reprieve either, for which he was actually glad, and had started right into piano lessons, which she stated he must know in order to entertain guests as Elizabeth Percy.

Arthur found out that he actually wasn't that bad at the instrument, and he could actually improve quite quickly if he spent hours practicing—which was exactly what he did in the evenings now that he had no plays to occupy his time. It also gave him a good reason to avoid Alfred in those moments during the night when they were neither dining nor dancing.

Alfred, on the other hand, had no idea that Arthur was avoiding him. The Marquess received brilliant reports from both the Countess and Ms. Johnson as to Arthur's progress every day, and he took it as a sign that Arthur was finally starting to enjoy his job. That made the Marquess overjoyed, for he had been starting to worry that the young actor would be grumpy forever—and more importantly, that the Alfred would be the only one to actually look forward to and enjoy their dinner conversations or dance lessons. He really was softening up to Arthur, and now fully considered him a friend, even if the feelings were obviously not mutual. Alfred regarded Arthur no longer with _just_ great amusement, but also with respect and admiration as well. How could he not, especially after the actor's spectacular performance during the Bennington Ball?

Alfred had been floored when he had first laid eyes on Lady Percy that night, who had been so fair and so graceful that there was almost absolutely no way a grumpy and scowling Arthur Kirkland could have been hidden underneath. Had Alfred encountered Lady Percy independently from the Count and Countess, he was quite sure he would have treated her like any other lady and not seen her as the purported soon-to-be object of his affections instead. Such had been the extent of Arthur's transformation into Elizabeth Percy, and no matter how much Arthur griped and groaned about the ridiculousness of his job, when it came down to it, the man could act with the best of them.

Thus, Alfred had delighted to hear that Arthur was throwing himself into his studies with never before seen fervor. The actor even talked more at dinner, and danced with more energy and grace. They tended to talk so much at those times, actually, that Alfred had never even had a moment to ask about Arthur's opinion of the Bennington Ball. That normally would have bothered Alfred, but Arthur seemed more spirited than ever, so the Marquess assumed everything was going just fine.

In fact, everything was going so much better than fine. Their plan—well, Alfred's plan into which he had dragged everybody else, some willing, some not—was _working_: Alfred was happy, Arthur was getting happier, and, best of all, no one suspected anything as of yet. Alfred would be _free_; he could see it already. And he would have this brilliant emerald-eyed actor to thank for such brilliant acting skills—though of course, little did Alfred realize that Arthur's skills were great enough to fool even him.

Alfred remained ignorant of problems even as more time passed. Three other social gatherings happened within the next week, and before they knew it, Arthur had been living on Alfred's estate for over half a month. Lessons, letters, and appointments kept the both of them busy when there were no gatherings to attend, and thus, it hadn't been hard for Arthur to act fine and avoid the growing problem of Elizabeth. In fact, it probably got easier to do as the week progressed, as the both of them gradually got busier and busier.

To start off, those three social gatherings were in and of themselves a flurry of activity. Arthur woke up extra early on those days, rehearsed piano, ate breakfast, picked out a dress with Belle, and then headed off to his two study sessions (which were always moved up to an earlier time when he had events in the evening). Then Belle would spend hours working on his disguise, by the end of which Arthur would already begin to feel tired. Arthur would then depart with the Count and Countess and arrive fashionably late, usually about an hour after the event began. Alfred came separately, and usually was there by the time Arthur had arrived. They would play their courting game, dance more, talk more, and gradually build on that "loving" relationship. Anyone could see that there was something special happening between the two (much to the irritation of many women—and, actually, of many men as well).

But that wasn't the main issue. The central problem was that many could also say the same about Elizabeth Percy and a certain French ambassador.

Elizabeth spent a fair amount of time with monsieur Bonnefoy whenever he was present (which turned out to be two out of the three events that week). They danced as much as they talked, and she was very open about her life just because he was so open with his. They talked about childhood interests, current hobbies, family pets, etc. (it turned out they both had terriers when they were children, and that became the subject of quite an involved and enjoyable conversation down memory lane). Elizabeth got to know the ambassador just as much as she got to know the Marquess, and her poor heart became more and more torn as a result. Both men paid her so many compliments, treated her so sweetly, and made her feel so utterly special in their own way. How could she decide?

On the one hand was Marquess Harrington, who was very much a charmer. He always noticed the part of her ensemble that she felt the most proud of that evening, and was sure to compliment her upon it. He was gallant and gentlemanly, and he made her feel like... well, in his words, a "precious emerald." She felt fragile and exquisite in his presence, dainty and so utterly untouchable. In other words, she felt priceless.

However, on the other hand, there was Ambassador Bonnefoy, who was the epitome of suave and seductive. He made her hairs raise on end, and though they had never touched more than was necessary for dancing, she found that she often craved further contact at every encounter. He made her skin crawl with his words, that lilting French accent getting under her skin and warming up her body from the inside. Monsieur Bonnefoy made her feel beautiful, and seductive, and very, _very_ flirtatious. In other words, he made her crave the more "private" experiences of womanhood.

In all honesty, she should have been terrified that she was experiencing such sexual desires around a man that was most likely almost twice her age, but she couldn't help her curiosity. Most girls her age were probably filled with equally prurient thoughts, and they weren't even as sheltered as she had been growing up. Francis Bonnefoy offered her a sort of dangerous excitement that the charming and gentle Marquess could not—though that wasn't a mark against the sweet blue eyed gentleman, for Marquess Harrington gave her a doting affection and kindness that she could find nowhere else.

Thus, her heart was torn utterly in half in affection for those two, and as the week progressed, conditions did not improve. In fact, they probably worsened.

Considering that it was still early in the season, both relationships were merely viewed as acquaintances by general society, and thus, none looked upon Elizabeth's split time in disapproval. Yet. But Arthur was well aware of the danger, and thus had been working extra hard to combat it. He was trying his absolute best to steer her away from the creepy Frenchman, or at least make her not look suspicious for devoting so much time to two men and two men only. If it had been just Alfred, things might have been easier and more explainable.

Arthur dragged Elizabeth around into quadrilles, group conversations, and engagements with countless other men and women. He felt some triumph when he even managed, one night, to occupy Elizabeth for the majority of an hour in polite conversation with the old and ailing Earl of Roth and his wife. These small victories kept him going, and they allowed him enough reason to excuse not telling Alfred about any of it; Arthur had it handled.

Of course, Arthur had plenty of his own problems to juggle as well, aside from that of Elizabeth's indecisive heart. The week wasn't just balls and parties; Arthur also had to pay private visits to various estates with the Count and Countess, get remeasured for more clothing, learn and practice piano, continue his regular studies, and devote extra energy on acting so as to not make Alfred suspicious.

By the end of the week, Arthur was sick of braised goose, champagne, news of Count This-and-That's marriage, the gold that surrounded him everywhere he went, and everything else besides. He was _so_ sick of it, in fact, that on the Saturday morning after the third ball, he refused to get out of bed. Elizabeth could go and cavort with Francis for all he cared. Arthur was tired of guarding her—though, he realized, staying here was ironically the most efficient way _of_ guarding her.

"Arthur, please wake up. You have much to do today." It was Oswald's third reminder of the morning.

Arthur rolled over and pulled his blankets above his head, grumbling something darkly under his breath.

"Master Kirkland! You must get up, otherwise you are going to be late for lunch with the Marquess of Winchester. It is already ten!" The butler rarely raised his voice, and even this instance was only vaguely stern and barely louder than the usual. Nevertheless, it got Arthur's attention. The young actor rolled back over and let the blanket down just below his eyes.

"I... don't want... to go..." he mumbled, coughing in the middle of is words. The good thing about being an actor was that one could feign practically anything, including sickness.

"Good lord, Arthur!" Oswald exclaimed, his expression shifting from polite irritation to extreme worry in the blink of an eye. "You look terrible!"

Arthur groaned, which wasn't even acting. He could already feel the headache he would develop if he was forced to think another damn girly thought. Being a woman every single day for the past three weeks was not an easy task. Arthur made a note to give his mother a big fruit basket when he next visited, as thanks for her extreme efforts.

"You need rest. And soup, and sleep, and medicine, and a doctor, and warmth," Oswald muttered as he fretted about with closing the curtains once again. "But your schedule is far too full today, Arthur. Maybe we can cancel tomorrow's agenda. Could you live through today?" The butler returned to the actor's bedside.

Arthur coughed and looked at Oswald though half lidded eyes, his expression the sheer definition of illness itself. Oswald looked startled. Things seemed worse than he expected.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear." He pulled Arthur's sheets farther up and tucked in the edges. "You _cannot_ make an appearance in such a state. I shall call upon Master Jones. He would want to be informed." The butler bowed. "Excuse me." Before Arthur could say anything in return, Oswald made off in a rush.

Rats. Arthur hadn't meant to look so bad that he'd garner Alfred's attention—or that of a doctor, for that matter. He would surely be revealed for the slacker and coward he was if he were closely examined, and then how could he face anyone else after such an embarrassment?

Arthur tried to fall back asleep, in hopes that Alfred—and possibly whatever doctor he brought with him—would leave him alone until he woke up later. But rest would not come, and his mind kept grumbling to him that he really ought to get up and do his job. It _was_ a job, after all, which Arthur had to remind himself of often, simply because it had become more of an all-inclusive lifestyle as time passed.

A horrible thought struck Arthur. Could he have been gradually turning aristocratic himself? He always scoffed at the higher classes for not working and instead opting for lounging around all day, yet wasn't that what he was doing now? Had he even thanked Tino yesterday for a good breakfast, or had he been too wrapped up in looking well for the ball later on? Arthur groaned. He probably hadn't, and it had only been three weeks so far that he had lived here, though it felt like much longer. What would he be by the end of this whole affair? And how long would that even be? A year? Two?

Such thoughts swam around his head and made it even harder for Arthur to fall asleep. He kept replaying various instances in his head of times where he showed "aristocratic" inclinations, such as not greeting Thomas, the driver, good afternoon a few days ago, or forgetting to bow back to Oswald the other evening. Arthur vowed to try harder; he would not let wealth lure him so easily. Maybe he had finally stumbled upon Alfred's true intentions; maybe this was the Marquess's trap. That actually barely made sense, but it worked better than any other reason he had so far (for Arthur still could not comprehend why Alfred would need an actor to play his fiancée, let alone Arthur specifically for the job).

The young actor's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and he hurriedly closed his eyes and exaggerated out his breathing in an attempt to at least look asleep, even if his mind was completely awake and very much aware.

"... don't think there is a need, no," Alfred murmured to someone whom Arthur assumed to be Oswald. "Thank you."

The door gently closed. Alfred walked in and immediately made for the main table on which Arthur usually had his breakfast. The Marquess barely even looked at Arthur as he picked up the book that was laying on the table beside this morning's untouched meal. Alfred raised an interested eyebrow as he read the title. _Wuthering Heights_? He chuckled and shook his head. He had no idea that Arthur had a penchant for reading romance novels.

Funny, because Alfred did too.

The Marquess sat down in the chair beside the bed and cracked open the book. He stared at Arthur's still form for a long thoughtful moment before proceeding to flip through a few pages, searching for a specific passage. His eyes lit with satisfaction when he found it, which was fast, considering _Wuthering Heights_ was one of the books he read most.

Alfred cleared his throat. "A person who has not done one half his day's work by ten o'clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone," he read. Alfred probably could have done it without the reference, but he had wanted it verbatim.

The Marquess shut the book and glanced over at the slow-breathing actor, a small smile on his lips. "Arthur," he murmured. When the sleeping blond didn't stir, Alfred leaned in closer. "Briar Rose," he whispered, referencing one of his favorite childhood stories from the Grimm brothers, "Your prince has come."

Alfred waited, then leaned in even closer. His face was mere inches away from Arthur's. Alfred was still for a moment, taking the time to admire the actor's flawless skin. Being male had its perks in instances like this; for example, Alfred could stare all he wanted at another man and the most it would be taken for was hostility or irritating amusement. And when his own estate was occupied by such an attractive man—beside himself, of course—Alfred's gender came very much in handy for exactly that reason.

"Allow me the honor of kissing you awake..." he whispered almost inaudibly, sure that his breath would tickle Arthur's admittedly inviting lips. Alfred started moving closer...

"Don't you dare." Alfred found himself face to face with a pair of bright green eyes that were suddenly very much awake.

The Marquess smirked, held still for a moment, then sat back, immediately falling to laughter. "I knew you weren't asleep!" he cried triumphantly, a little bit of his American accent showing through.

Arthur growled and narrowed his eyes in disapproval. "That was a sly trick, Alfred."

Alfred, wiping tears from his eyes, glanced at the actor. "But it worked, did it not? Oh, if only you could see how red your face is!" That set off another bout of laughter.

"How did you know I wasn't asleep?" Arthur asked, deciding—for the sake of _Alfred's_ good health—to ignore the Marquess's earlier words.

It took a moment for Alfred to calm down. Still vaguely shaking from silent laughter, he replied, "When you sleep, your bottom lip sometimes quivers, and you toss and turn quite often."

Arthur sprang up, yanking the blankets up defensively along with him. "_You watch me sleep?! How could you—_"

"Calm down, calm down," Alfred intoned, laughter threatening to bubble up once again. "You know, you're starting to act quite effeminate. Elizabeth must be affecting you," he pointed out, gesturing to Arthur's current position, which was reminiscent of a woman who had been caught naked by another man and had rushed to cover herself up.

The actor glanced down at himself and his face further reddened. He quickly let go of his sheets and sat up straighter, shoulders back. He would be dignified now, Alfred be damned.

"Don't try to change the subject, Alfred," Arthur said, his tone lethal.

"I'm not!" Seeing Arthur's skeptical look, Alfred laughed. His accent went back to full British as he spoke, "Really, I can assure you, 'Lady Percy,' that I am not attempting to shift the topic of this delightful conversation."

Arthur scowled and crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "Well?"

"'Well' what, madame?"

"Stop calling me that," Arthur snapped.

"Calling you what, Ms—"

"Alfred!"

The Marquess laughed, clutching his stomach. "Fine, fine." He got slightly more serious and attempted to sit up straighter. "I'm sorry, Arthur." There it was again, that little bit of American. Arthur hadn't heard it since that time he had brought it up weeks ago.

"I really am sorry," Alfred continued. "You simply make it very difficult for me to keep my composure."

Arthur hmphed, which made Alfred chuckle. "Take that for the compliment it is, Arthur. Breaking an aristocrat's self-control is not a deed easily accomplished."

Arthur's frown lessened, though he refused to stop glowering at the Marquess. Arthur had to hand it to Alfred: that_ was_ a good point. Arthur had started to learn by now that nobles were possibly the most skilled actors of all, and thus, making them lose their well-trained composure was tough indeed. They were so good, in fact, that if they were a troupe, and they put on _Hamlet_, Arthur was sure the audience would probably without hesitation fetch a member of the actual City Police when Hamlet killed Polonius, just because it'd be that believable.

"... Fine," Arthur grudgingly agreed. Alfred had to be insane, though, if he thought Arthur would actually thank him for it.

Alfred smiled and clasped his hands together. He'd take those small victories when he could. "Good. Now then, Arthur, you don't look like you're 'carrying the plague,' as Oswald put it." The Marquess leaned back. "Thus, if you would be so kind, please tell me why Countess Héderváry has to shamefacedly attend lunch without Elizabeth's presence today."

Arthur's heart tightened. When Alfred phrased it that way, what excuse could he present? Alfred was probably well aware that he was painting Arthur into a corner, yet the actor felt a bit too guilty at the moment to even get angry about that manipulative move. After all, Alfred was—in one of his rare moments—right.

"I..." Arthur glanced down at his sheets, his eyebrows knitted together. "I'm..." Oh confound it all. "There is no reason, Alfred. I'll get up now and—"

"You will do no such thing." Alfred used that tone that always managed to stop Arthur mid-action without fail.

The actor looked up, perplexed. "What?"

Alfred smiled. "You will do no such thing," he repeated. Alfred spread his hands wide, his full British accent back and there to stay. "As it happens, Elizabeth Percy is struck by a mild case of stomach sickness, and thus, regrettably, cannot attend any of her events today."

Arthur stared at Alfred, completely confused. "What? But I'm not—"

"No, _you_ aren't, I agree. But _she_ is."

"But _I'm_ Eliz—"

"Not today." Alfred shrugged, a passive "c'est la vie" smile on his face.

"... I don't understand."

Alfred leaned back and chuckled. "For someone who knows how to read at your economic status, Mr. Kirkland, you really can be quite dense when it counts."

That struck a personal nerve. How dare Alfred mention money? "Alfred! You have no right to—"

"I am _saying_, Arthur," the Marquess interrupted, using that gentle yet commanding tone again, "that you take a break this weekend." Alfred smiled genuinely this time, which made Arthur bite back further retorts. Such a sight on Alfred's face when he wasn't with Elizabeth was very rare, and even Arthur, in his touchy mood, didn't want to give reason for that expression to cease. "It would be a well deserved break, might I add."

Arthur was contemplatively quiet for a few moments before replying. "What will I do about all the appointments?"

"I shall dispatch a messenger to the Countess at once. There is still time."

Arthur was starting to like this idea, though he was always vaguely suspicious of Alfred. There had to be a catch. Alfred wouldn't just let Arthur off of work that easily; he had no incentive to do so.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur asked, looking up directly into those pale blue eyes.

Alfred laughed. "Oh, there really must be a reason all the time with you, mustn't there?" Inwardly, the Marquess as just a tad bit hurt that Arthur was still suspicious of him, but it wasn't like that was unexpected. Even if Alfred had been warming up to Arthur, the actor had clearly not been doing the same.

But that fact only caused the occasional feeling of disappointment; after all, Alfred had said it himself that he never thought Arthur would consider him a friend. In addition, Alfred had come into this project not expecting or needing friendship—or anything else, for that matter—and that still remained the truth.

Arthur didn't reply, and crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. Alfred should have known him well enough by now to know nothing passed by his overly scrutinizing eyes unscathed.

"Fine, I relent," Alfred murmured, hands up defensively. "I have _wicked_ ulterior motives, if you must know. They will make your skin crawl with horror." He cleared his throat and grinned. "Marquess Alfred F. Harrington is visiting a distant relative this weekend up in Lancaster."

Arthur opened his mouth to point out the obvious, but was cut off by more of Alfred's narrative words. "In truth, however, I needed some rest from the constant visits and visitations. Thus, my weekend is devoid of plans." He spread his fingers wide. "Until now. _You_ are now my plan, Arthur. I am awfully bored otherwise, wouldn't you agree?"

Arthur frowned. Maybe he preferred herding Elizabeth's heart over this. Who knows what unbelievable things could be on the sly Marquess's mind under the category of "spare time entertainment"?

"... Please elaborate on what you mean by 'plans.'"

Alfred frowned in mock offense. "Will you never stop suspecting me of cruel motives?"

The Marquess actually had official business to take care of today, but had decided suddenly upon seeing Arthur's weary face that he would cancel them. After all, this was Alfred's fiancée, in a way; other matters could wait. In addition, if Alfred were to take a weekend off by himself in secrecy, he knew he'd be bored out of his wits, which he feared Arthur would be if left alone. Thus, Alfred saw it as a favor to Arthur that he had on a whim just then cleared his weekend of plans just to keep the scowling actor company.

Alfred continued, more serious, "We can do anything you wish, Arthur."

The young actor was not convinced, but he tried his hand at it anyways. The odd thing was that whenever Alfred made broad statements like that, he usually meant it, unlike most people. Arthur couldn't help but remember the time he had jokingly asked for the whole manor as work compensation, and Alfred had agreed without hesitation. What an odd aristocrat.

"I want to... See your gardens," Arthur decided. He had yet to tour the manor grounds—or see anything but his guest house and its path to the main road, actually. "And I would like to see where you live, as well. In fact, a tour of all the grounds would be nice." Arthur glanced appraisingly at the Marquess, judging the reply.

Alfred frowned. "I have to say that that's not the most exciting activity for me, considering I've lived here all my life, but"—Alfred shrugged—"your wish is my command..." The Marquess smirked and added, "Lady Percy."

Arthur scowled. "Get out."

Alfred pouted. "But I do not desire to do so!" he lamented.

"I need to change!" Arthur insisted. If he was barely comfortable enough in a robe around Alfred, he was sure not going to strip naked and reclothe in the man's presence.

Alfred received the message and stood up, hands held in a defensive palms-out manner. He made for the door. "I concede, cruel mistress! I am taking my leave." Alfred dodged a pillow Arthur threw at him and opened the door. "I shall be in the main salon when you are ready." Before he closed the door behind him, Alfred added, "What a cruel world this is, in which a lady would forcefully drive her fiancé out of sight!"

Arthur grimaced and called back, "What a cruel world this is, in which a 'gentleman' watches his fiancée sleep without her knowledge!"

That remark elicited a laugh from the Marquess which could still be heard through the door as he retreated down the hall.

Arthur sat on his bed, waiting for his heart to calm down. His face reddened as it dawned on him exactly what he had said—what he had _implied_. Arthur shuddered. The Elizabeth Percy job was getting to him. Maybe this weekend off was a good idea. Yes, it was. Possibly the best of all of Alfred's whims, Arthur decided.

After a few minutes of calmed breathing, Arthur swung his legs over the side of his bed and proceeded to get ready. He realized that he had never gotten a chance to ask why Alfred knew_ Wuthering Heights_ so well—or whether or not it was true that Alfred watched him sleep, for that matter.

Then again, maybe some stones were better left unturned.

* * *

It was 11:00 by the time Arthur made it downstairs. He had taken his leisurely time in changing and eating his now-cold breakfast. Part of him thought that if he was going to have a relaxed weekend, he might as well start as soon as possible; the other more vindictive part of him wanted to punish Alfred for his incessant teasing earlier—although when Arthur had calmed down and had had his first cup of tea for the day, he actually smiled at the thought of this morning's interesting encounter. It had been a while since Alfred had shown that more relaxed and playful side of him, and the young actor found he had actually missed it a little. Arthur had learned by now that there were at least two types of teasing from Alfred: the aristocratic toying-with-the-lower-classes one, which Arthur truly hated with vehemence, and the normal this-is-just-who-I-am one, which Arthur pretended to get highly annoyed about, but honestly found a bit endearing—though he'd never admit it out loud.

"Well, it's about time you arrived, princess," Alfred said as Arthur walked in, putting the letter he was reading back into his jacket pocket. _Hardworking as always_, Arthur observed. That was one of the aspects he liked about Alfred.

The emerald-eyed actor glowered at being called "princess," his lips pursed. That made Alfred laugh and stand up.

The Marquess walked over, a small smile playing at his lips. "I've forgotten how handsome you look in men's attire," he commented. It had been weeks since Alfred had seen Arthur dressed in anything but female clothing or a simple house robe, and he hadn't realized how much he had missed it until now. As good looking as Alfred knew he was, it was hard to admire his own looks every morning with as much interest after he'd been doing it for twenty-five years. Arthur, on the other hand, was fresh, and he was very much a feast for the eyes. And being another man, Alfred could safely stare without doing anymore harm than garnering hatred—which he thought he already had from Arthur, so there was nothing to lose but so much to gain.

"... You're staring," Arthur muttered, averting his eyes to the ground. Did he have something on his face?

Alfred's suave smile widened, but he didn't move his eyes away by even one centimeter. "Am I?"

Arthur crossed his arms, his face reddening under the scrutiny. He didn't quite understand why he was so agitated, considering Alfred stared at him often enough when they were acting, but this... This was different. Alfred was staring at _him_, not at Elizabeth—and that for some reason made him very uncomfortable.

"Yes, you are. And it would be highly appreciated if you would stop."

Alfred chuckled and backed off. "Message received, Arthur." The Marquess straightened out his jacket. "Now, where shall we start?"

The actor raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You weren't joking about this?"

Alfred flashed Arthur a harmless smile. "Of course not."

"You do know how much walking this might involve, right?" Arthur was quite sure the Marquess had never walked more than a mile in any day of his whole life, let alone wander around the whole vast area of his grounds in one morning.

The Marquess chuckled. "Yes, Arthur. I should like to think that I am more aware of the acreage of my estate than you."

Arthur's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He could very well do this on his own, and even as he had been preparing upstairs, he hadn't expected Alfred to come along. What was in it for the Marquess?

"... Why are you doing this?" he questioned, glancing over Alfred's harmlessly smiling face with deep scrutiny. Arthur still had never been able to figure out Alfred's motives for anything, and it was highly unsettling, to say the least. Of all the aristocrats he had to end up with, Arthur had to land one that completely wasn't of the usual cut of noblemen—and he still couldn't decide whether that was good or bad.

"Do you really want to know?" Alfred asked, his tone light, taunting.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, Alfred."

The Marquess chuckled. He rocked back onto his heels and bent at the waist to lean in, a secretive smile on his face. "Because I would be spending time with you," he murmured all too teasingly, his breath caressing Arthur's cheek. Before Arthur could say anything else, Alfred practically leapt for the door. "Hurry along, Mr. Kirkland! I assure you I have no qualms about leaving you behind!"

Arthur was frozen for a moment. He could feel the heat radiate from his cheeks all the way up to the tips of his ears. Who cared if Alfred Jones was a Marquess and the son of one of the most powerful Dukes in all of England? He had _no right_ to pull a reaction like that out of Arthur, or say such unsettling things without even blinking an eye. Arthur whirled around and made after the man, hands curled into fists. It was completely unfair that Alfred could joke and tease so often like that, and it was perhaps even more unfair that it never ceased to make Arthur react in ways he completely did not understand.

* * *

Arthur flopped onto the chair, slamming shut his eyes as he waited for his breathing to calm down. He had excitedly run ahead of Alfred the moment they had come upon the garden, and now, needless to say, was a bit out of breath—not to mention lost.

It seemed that he had stumbled upon a little courtyard, quite small in comparison to what he had witnessed of the gardens on his dash over. There were tall hedges on all four sides, and Arthur had entered through an archway cut into one of them. The ground was rocky and pale white, made up of little pebbles that glowed faintly in the sunlight. Two simple mermaid fountains stood on either side, spewing water from their vases into the common stream they shared that ran through the middle of the area. To one side of that stream was a set of two chairs and a small table, likely meant for a very private, if not solitary, moment of afternoon tea. On the other side of the small brook was a single plush chaise lounge, on which Arthur was currently sprawled not-so-elegantly under the comforting shade of an umbrella.

Arthur let out a sigh as his heart slowed down. He hadn't meant to leave Alfred behind—at least not consciously. He had just wanted to explore, for this was the first instance of free time he had had since coming to the estate. Well, that and Alfred was being quite odd this morning, and Arthur wanted no part of it.

On their short walk to the garden, Alfred had seemed more inquisitive than usual, asking questions about Arthur's life, Elizabeth's role, other aristocrats she had met, etc. He seemed to know that something was wrong, and that terrified Arthur to no end. He wasn't ready to reveal his secret yet, which was gradually growing worse as time passed. But he knew he could handle it—he _had_ to handle it. What would Alfred think of him if he knew just what a mess Arthur had made of things? What sort of actor couldn't keep an eye on his own character? — Or actually, when had Arthur started caring what Alfred thought of him?

The actor's green eyes opened to look directly up at the clear sky, partly shielded by the overhanging burgundy umbrella. His mouth twisted into a confused grimace. Really, just when had he actually started caring? When did Alfred start becoming a large enough part of his life that the man's opinion mattered? Well, it wasn't as if Arthur could help the feeling, or just push it away on a whim. It was here, and it seemed here to say. Somewhere along the way, Alfred had become... well, something more than _just_ a smug narcissist of an aristocrat, in Arthur's eyes—and that was already more than Arthur had ever thought would happen.

At that moment, said 'smug narcissist' was strolling through the French style colonnade that ran through the middle of the whole garden area. He wasn't too worried about finding Arthur, as the garden had been built to only have one exit and entrance, unless one were to climb through the trees and over the bushes. Such a system worked to his advantage should he ever want to entrap an enemy in the already confusing maze of a garden—or at least that was what he liked to think his reason had been when he had decided on such a complex set of twists and turns in overhauling its layout.

Alfred turned off to the left, down a small cobblestone path that would lead to what he liked to call Paradise Lost. It was his favorite place in all of the manor's grounds, and he used to spend a lot of spare time there as a child—back when there was still spare time to be had. Nowadays, he rarely came this way, for it was quite secluded from the rest of the estate, which, ironically, had been its attraction to him in younger days. He was glad Arthur wanted to see the grounds, for it allowed Alfred a good reason to revisit his childhood safe haven.

As the Marquess walked, his mind further pondered upon why Arthur had suddenly dashed off mid-conversation earlier. Alfred thought that their conversation had been going quite well, actually, and was quite surprised when Arthur's eyes had lit up, and he had just made a run for it. They had been right in the middle of talking about family members, and Alfred had just been about to mention his mother when that interruption happened. It wasn't a light topic, and the Marquess had been working up to it as they walked—not to mention he had been thinking about it for days already, and had finally decided it was time. Thus, needless to say, Alfred was a little bit annoyed when Arthur decided to run off and break what he thought to be an important moment.

The Marquess had been attempting to make polite conversation, to open up to Arthur and hopefully allow Arthur to do the same. That was, he admitted, an ulterior motive for this sudden weekend idea, along with many, many other reasons besides. After all, one should always aim to kill as many birds with one stone as possible, however morbid that idea might seem. Thus, he had been asking more questions, though in return he had also been answering more. Arthur had been asking his fair share, and Alfred had tried his best to provide information while still not revealing too much. It wasn't that he didn't trust Arthur—it was just that he didn't trust anyone besides his deceased mother. Then again, Arthur didn't trust him either, which Alfred lamented, but he knew it was unfair for him to wish for anything else when he could do no better.

Alfred passed under the archway carved into one of the four hedges of Paradise Lost and pushed his thoughts aside upon seeing what was inside. After the initial surprise faded away, Alfred smiled, truly and gently, as he looked upon the lounge acros the little courtyard. Arthur really had no idea how handsome he looked, did he? Alfred couldn't deny that part of his reason for picking Arthur for this job was his own natural—or as society would say, "unnatural"—attraction toward the man. It was impossible not to be pulled into those vivid green eyes—green eyes which were, at the moment, reflecting like newly polished jade in the sunlight.

"Somehow I knew you'd be here," Alfred lied. He had learned through much experience that it was always better to appear omniscient than to admit to sheer luck. People feared you and respected you more that way.

Arthur sprang up, having missed Alfred's quiet entrance completely. Thoughts about his recent change in opinion of Alfred had been noisily buzzing around his mind, making it difficult to notice much else.

"Alfred?"

The Marquess sauntered over, hands in his pockets. He stepped over the stream with the ease of great familiarity, not even looking down to watch his step. "That is indeed my name, Arthur." He gave a flourishing bow upon arrival at the foot of the chaise lounge. "Thank you, for I should not have known it were so unless you had mentioned it." He chuckled and straightened up.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, a little too stupidly. This _was_ Alfred's garden, after all, and they had made plans to go through it _together_. It had been Arthur who had broken that part of the agenda when he ran off.

Alfred's eyebrows quirked up. "Should I not be here?" he asked in mock offense. Alfred took a seat at the foot of the chair, which was completely open in the sunlight. Instinctively, Arthur moved aside to make space in the shade—an action which he didn't notice, as he was busy staring at the threads of gold that was Alfred's hair transformed under the sun. It was a new sight, for they rarely encountered each other in any setting other than dinner, nighttime dancing, and evening balls and parties. And earlier, Arthur had been too focused on talking to really _notice_ until now just how handsome the daytime made Alfred—well, more handsome than the usual, that is.

The Marquess smiled slightly and moved into a shady spot beside Arthur, the lounge big enough to accompany the two of them comfortably side by side. That unconscious action on the actor's part had not been lost on Alfred, who had been a bit surprised, but then all too happy that it happened. Maybe Arthur was getting a bit comfortable with their relationship as well—though Alfred didn't allow himself to hope for anything so far as good friendship. That was still a long ways away. After all, friendship required trust, and neither of them were willing to give that up so easily.

"I should think that I had a right to come find you," Alfred continued. "After all, it was you who fled mid-conversation, Arthur." The Marquess turned to look at the actor. "Am I so repulsive in polite conversation?" he asked jokingly.

Arthur frowned, not at all because of Alfred's sudden proximity, which actually seemed more natural to him now than before, when Alfred had been sitting in the sunlight and so far away. No, he didn't frown because of that; he frowned because his heart had just twisted in pain at Alfred's words, and that reaction disturbed him. He shouldn't have been feeling guilt for _any_ of it: not for leaving Alfred behind just now, or for hiding away his secret about Elizabeth, or for Elizabeth's growing problem in the first place. Guilt shouldn't have existed for any of it, because Arthur simply shouldn't have _cared_. But he did, and apparently, Arthur was fast learning, that feeling couldn't be helped. Oc course, that didn't mean that he was any more comfortable with it, though.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, surprising both Alfred and himself. The Marquess glanced over, eyes slightly wider than they had been before. _That_ had been the last reaction he had been expecting.

"What?"

Arthur looked down at his lap. "I said it clearly enough, Alfred," he muttered, annoyed with himself. The apology had seemed natural enough in the moment, but now he was already second guessing it completely. It had been weeks since Arthur had apologized for anything toward Alfred, and suddenly doing it now felt bizarre. Maybe he really _was_ sick._  
_

The Marquess stared for a while then leaned back, letting out a small laugh. "You never cease to surprise me," he murmured. Alfred closed his eyes, and after some more laughing, added, "You didn't have to, you know."

Arthur had been busy studying the embroidery on the chair's cloth, and barely looked up when the Marquess had spoken again. His frown returned. "I know I didn't, so I take it back."

Alfred sat up, suddenly distressed. "What? You don't have to do that either," he pointed out, some of his American accent returning. That made Arthur look up, his emerald eyes closely studying the Marquess's stricken face.

"That expression does wonders for your good looks," Arthur murmured, laughing a little. It really was ridiculous to see Alfred act innocently crestfallen. It was like seeing "monsieur" Francis Bonnefoy act like a seven year old, throwing a tantrum and demanding candy. One just couldn't ever imagine such a sight actually happening in reality.

Alfred tried to remain indignant in the face of such mirth, but Arthur's laughter eventually breached his walls. The Marquess puffed out a loud laugh. "I know, I know," he replied, playing along. "It makes me look ravishing, right?" Alfred winked. "I practice it every morning in front of the mirror, along with my coquettish giggles." He paushed, smirking. "Wait, I must be confusing my morning with yours."

The actor blushed and took a playful swat at Alfred, which the Marquess dodged with even greater laughter. Arthur didn't seem to notice his action, but it wasn't lost on Alfred that the actor had just _hit him_, even if it was merely in jest. In the span of just three weeks, a lot had changed—and changed for the better, in Alfred's opinion. There was no longer any hesitation in Arthur, and he was comfortable enough now that he could just launch into that swing without thought. At the beginning of their relationship, that would have been utterly unbelievable, and Arthur would have apologized for it immediately, with deep bow and all. Thus, getting hit made Alfred quite happy, for it meant that they were making progress—and that maybe they were _both_ getting closer together, not just Alfred deviating toward Arthur as the green-eyed man remained rigidly and stubbornly still.

Arthur harrumphed. "For your information, I don't _need_ practice for coquettish giggling." He had meant for it to sound like something to boast about, but the moment it came out of his mouth, he could already predict Alfred's reply.

"Ah! It must come naturally to you. My mistake, Arthur." The actor wanted so strongly to wipe that smug grin off of Alfred's expression.

The Marquess glanced at his pocket watch. "Before you decide to prove to me your giggling prowess, I must inform you that it is lunch time." The actor had his arms crossed now, and was trying to bore holes through Alfred with his glare—a glare which Alfred was fast finding to be highly endearing and not at all menacing. The Marquess let out a chuckle and stood up with much effort, reluctant to leave the comfortable chair—which was comfortable not because of its material, but because of the person next to whom he had, until recently, been sitting. "Come along. You had mentioned a desire to see the main manor, right? We can have lunch there." The Marquess extended a hand to help Arthur up.

The actor eyed the proffered hand with an eyebrow raised in disbelief, then he swiftly stood up completely on his own. "Fine," Arthur said. "But I'm only agreeing because of the manor. You are still not forgiven for your harassing ways."

Alfred threw his head back and his clear, bright laughter filled the air. Moments like this were simply too precious; Alfred wished he could capture them somehow and keep them forever, for he was sure he had never before found someone else so utterly entertaining in all his life.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he assured Arthur. They fell into step with each other and both started walking out of Paradise Lost.

* * *

The Marquess toyed with a fork as he watched Arthur, amusement written all over his face. "Why do you look so surprised?" he asked, though his tone, however, made it obvious that he already knew the answer, or at least had a very good guess.

Arthur was staring at the decor of the dining room, which was actually very similar to that of the guest house, and that wasn't what he had been expecting. To be honest, Arthur had thought that the main manor would be much larger and more ostentatious, but it was neither of those. There were still two floors, discounting the attic, and the general layout seemed quite similar, though Arthur had yet to extensively explore either house, so he could not compare for sure. There was still gold lined wallpaper plastered on the hallway walls, dark velvet drapes framing the countless pristine windows, and dark cherry wood furniture placed strategically about in all the rooms Arthur had seen so far, creating a feeling of untouchable grandeur yet welcome homeliness at the same time. It was quite a vexing combination when Arthur had first encountered it nearly a month ago in the guest house, but he was quite used to it by now.

Arthur tore his eyes away from the painting on the far side of the wall, which was of a regal man, standing tall with with his hat in his hands, his moustache fashioned into tasteful curls at its ends. The actor guessed that it was a depiction of Duke Harrington in his younger days, based on those icy eyes that seemed to stare at him and read his innermost secrets—secrets which Arthur very much did not want revealed in the present company.

"I'm not surprised," Arthur said, glancing back down at his plate, onto which he had absentmindedly piled some fancily done up Cumberland pie.

Alfred popped a piece of a lightly buttered roll into his mouth and chewed before replying. "Yes, you are." Alfred gave Arthur an impish smile. "Somehow I have a feeling you expected the main house to be more grandiose." It was a statement, not a question.

Arthur slid a small piece of pie onto his fork and shrugged. "I'm not disagreeing."

The Marquess chuckled. "Well, is it not to your liking?" His eyes narrowed astutely as his smirk widened. "Or maybe you are disturbed because its equality to the guest house clashes with your perfectly defined view of me and the general nobility."

Arthur glanced at Alfred. That had been a terrifyingly good guess.

"Well," he replied, "is _that_ not to your liking?"

Alfred stared for a bit before bursting out into laughter. He set down his utensils and leaned back into his chair, eyes closed in mirth as his bright laughter reverberated off the walls. After he calmed down, Alfred replied, ignoring the actual question, "Sometimes, you are utterly brilliant." Of course Alfred didn't like Arthur's disdainful view of him, but he couldn't very well let on just how much it was starting to sadden him every now and then.

With a small smile playing at his lips, Arthur simply replied, much to his own surprise, "I know." Maybe being around Alfred was starting to rub off on him, because three weeks before, Arthur couldn't have replied so smugly or thought of something so smoothly and so quickly. He wasn't sure he liked this new change in his conversational abilities, but he would have to explore it further before forming a final opinion.

Alfred's eyes were still twinkling with laughter as he took another bite of his roll. "Arrogance does not suit you."

Arthur raised one incredulous eyebrow in Alfred's direction. "And so, on this historic day," he started sarcastically, "Alfred F. Jones, occupant of the most fragile glass house, decides it is a good idea to toss stones."

The Marquess chuckled and shook his head in silent laughter. "Well, it seems that nothing has broken yet," he replied before taking a bite of his lamb steak and chewing thoughtfully.

"Before I forget," Alfred continued after swallowing, "Countess Héderváry would like to commend you on just how much you've improved your piano in the past two weeks. She described it as... hmm, what was it again? Ah, yes. 'Watching a child who grows up far too quickly, and in all the good ways.'" The Marquess chuckled. "Of course, I can't make an opinion about it myself, for I have yet to _hear _your piano." Alfred gave Arthur a playful pointed stare. After all, piano was what Arthur used to avoid Alfred in the evenings, and he had specifically requested that Alfred not be near the room when he was practicing—for _focus_ purposes, of course. But that also meant that Alfred was probably one of the last people who lived on the estate to hear anything of Arthur's newfound skill._  
_

The young actor had been in quite a good mood up until then, having been able to forget about Elizabeth almost entirely. But thinking on piano brought it all flooding back, and Arthur rushed to change the subject—a bit too quickly, for he saw Alfred's eyes narrow with sudden curiosity.

"Speaking of the Countess," Arthur tried, "you've never told me why she makes time every day to come over and teach me."

Alfred gazed evenly at Arthur for a moment, his eyes reflecting his father's astute intelligence. Arthur knew that Alfred could sense something was wrong, and he hoped to God that the Marquess would just let it go. And, much to his relief, Alfred did just that.

"I've already said that she likes men of a certain type, have I not?" His tone was light, but his mind was quite occupied. Maybe it had been just his imagination, but had Arthur been touchy about his piano comment? Alfred hadn't meant to be offensive about it. He honestly did not care so much that Arthur liked his privacy when practicing; it had been merely a teasing statement, meant to follow along the lines of how he usually acted around Arthur. Alfred inwardly shrugged. Maybe he was just being too paranoid; considering things were going so well, it wasn't surprising that he would be wary of the slightest sign that something was amiss.

Arthur swallowed his bite of pie and washed it down with some grapefruit juice before replying, with only half-feigned curiosity, "You did mention that. But you still haven't explained what that _means_." He felt waves of relief ebb over him as the conversation deviated away from the dangerous subject of Elizabeth. _I still have time_, Arthur reassured himself. He could still fix this. All he needed was a few more balls next week and things would be where they should. How exactly he would accomplish that, he still did not know, but anything was better than disappointing Alfred, his... friend?

The Marquess looked up, suspicion fading from his eyes as his mind turned to this new subject as well. He probably _was_ being far too paranoid, and plus, this new conversational topic attracted a fair bit of attention, considering that they were moving away from Arthur's dangerous territory right onto Alfred's own shaky ground.

"I said that she likes men who are extremely handsome," Alfred replied lightly, the left corner of his lips quirking up into a lopsided smile. His mind was racing. Just where was he planning to take this? Being a man of whims paid off at times, but in instances like this, being unpredictable was just a bit terrifying.

Arthur rolled his eyes. If the Countess really did love handsome men, then the she would have been staring lovingly at her husband, who was quite attractive in his own way. Instead, the two of them always acted like good friends, but never lovers, as Arthur had noted time and time again. Madame Héderváry had to like something else. There had to be another reason, and Arthur was highly curious as to what it was—though perhaps he was more so curious as to why Alfred seemed so reluctant in answering truthfully.

"You cannot expect me to believe that," Arthur said as he picked up more food with his fork. "What does she like about those 'types' of men?"

Alfred regarded Arthur carefully before chuckling and putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. You've caught me." _What in the name of God are you_ _doing?_ his mind panicked._ Stop this madness before—_"She finds them amusing," Alfred replied, casually pushing aside his conscience. If Arthur was going to be smart and observant, then Alfred would be just as intelligent in return. The Marquess saw this as a chance to match wit for wit, keenness for keenness, and it had never been in his personality to take a challenge lightly, no matter how small. Most likely, that would be the cause of his downfall someday.

The Marquess broke off a piece of his roll before continuing. "Those types of men are entertaining to her," he explained. "You know... men who... shall we say, _yearn _for a different type of love. An 'unnatural' romantic inclination."

Alfred's voice may have sounded light and lazy as he spoke about the matter, but his own heart was beating faster than it had ever in a long time. This was delicate ground, and he was taking great risks, but the game—the _game_—well, it was just far too exciting to pass off.

Arthur's fork clattered on his plate of fine china. He stared at Alfred, dumbfounded for a variety of reasons as it dawned on him what Alfred meant: first, his view of the Countess had just changed _drastically_; second, he was incredulous at how Alfred was able to talk about this subject in such an open and calm manner; and third, it struck him again somewhere in his mind that this_—_the 'unnatural' romantic inclination thing—was what they were engaging in in a vaguely roundabout manner by acting as lovers. If this crazy scheme was ever to be discovered, then it would be his own soul that was on the line to stand trial against society. Alfred had the money and power to spin it whichever way he wanted to, and even if Arthur had just started tentatively terming their relationship as "friendship," he definitely did not put it above Alfred to do whatever it took to keep himself out of trouble. The Marquess just loved freedom far too much to let anything stand in the way.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off when Alfred turned his icy blue eyes toward him. This was Alfred's golden opportunity to kill some curiosity he had been having since the beginning. "What about _you_, Arthur? What is your view on the matter of such men?"

The actor's mind raced for an answer. _Of course_ he didn't condone such actions. It was unnatural and very disturbing to his Anglican upbringing. Yet, being an actor, he had brushed against this sin more often than he had ever wanted to. It was a necessity when one was only ever relegated to women's roles. At first, he had been highly uncomfortable with the idea of even hugging a man, let alone acting with _full_ romantic inclinations toward another male. Yet, over time, his sense of the sin had dulled. Thus, he had been able to pull off Juliet without hesitation, despite the fact that it was another male—more specifically, _Gilbert_—on the other end.

So how did he feel? Did he accept it? Was he okay with it? Did acting it make it any more acceptable than the real thing? Arthur wasn't so naive as to think that men of such an inclination did not exist, and he was not so cruel as to think that such men deserved to be killed for their deviations. Yet, he didn't think that such a sin should tread lightly either. Then again, in his mind, he had convinced himself that _acting_ female did not count along those same lines. It was all for play and for art, and surely, God could forgive him for that.

Thus, it was only with shaky certainty that Arthur replied, "I think they should be punished."

"Capital offense?" the Marquess asked immediately, his tone tightening just a little.

"... No," the actor relented. "Some people simply cannot help their circumstances." He hoped that these words would resonate with the Marquess should the scheme ever be discovered, because at that point, Arthur would be in very bad circumstances indeed.

"Nevertheless," he added, "It is a sin. And as it is with all sins, sinners must be punished." Arthur finished off by taking another bite of pie, as if the conversation really wasn't all that important—and in reality, it wasn't. This subject was nothing more than purely intellectual banter for the young actor, lightly touched with some personal feelings, just because of its interesting connection to the Countess, but nothing more.

Alfred averted his grey blue eyes down to the tablecloth. "I see." His tone made Arthur shoot him quizzical look. This was one of those times when the Marquess seemed like someone else entirely. All of a sudden, he looked more tired, the shadows under his eyes a deeper purple than Arthur had noticed before. And had his hair really been that mused up when he had first walked through the door this morning? Arthur opened his mouth to say something—though he really didn't know what he'd say. Luckily, Alfred saved him the trouble.

The Marquess sat up and his charm was suddenly back. Those dark circles around his eyes magically disappeared, all his hair was back where it should have been, and any wrinkles left in his clothing were only there to give the impression of a person who didn't care about how he looked, but had cared enough to make it seem that way in the first place. Honestly, the change had happened so fast and so drastically that Arthur almost thought he had imagined the weary, depressed moment just before—yet this happened too often for it to be counted as mere imagination anymore.

"That expression does not look the least bit flattering on your visage," Alfred murmured, his smirk back and stronger than ever. In Arthur's opinion, it might even have looked a bit forced. What was Alfred hiding? Arthur opened his mouth to ask, but shut it again. Maybe this wasn't the time.

Arthur took another bite of his pie—the last bite—and smiled back, his expression just as feigned as Alfred's. "No expression looks flattering on yours," he replied, his tone a bit tight himself. After all, it wasn't like Arthur didn't have his own share of secrets he was keeping from Alfred, and seeing Alfred be so secretive reminded him of that all too well.

Arthur's reply had set the both of them into light laughter, though it was quite forced, for something was different in the atmosphere now. The air was thicker and a bit more palpable, and they both could feel it.

Alfred picked back up his fork as quickly as he picked back up the conversation, his eyes thoughtfully glancing over Arthur's equally mirthful face. The hitch in Arthur's tone had not escaped the Marquess's notice. They were both lying through their teeth, and though the both of them suspected something about the other, there was some silent agreement that this just wasn't the time to bring anything up.

Either that, or neither of them wanted to put a wrench in what was a remarkably good day so far.

* * *

They had finished lunch with much small talk and light banter, and neither of them touched upon the subjects of piano practice or 'unusual' men again. It took a while, but by the end of the meal, both of them felt as if some normalcy had returned. Arthur had cracked a few jokes, which made Alfred happier as he was reminded of just how comfortable the actor had gotten in recent times. The Marquess also teased less and talked more intellectually, which reminded Arthur that there were sides to Alfred that he genuinely liked and admired.

Alfred stood up as the plates were cleared away. He stretched his arms slightly and murmured, "I don't know how you're feeling," he commented, "but I'm not particularly inclined towards further exploration this afternoon." He glanced at his pocket watch—a habit which every busy nobleman seemed to have every hour, on the hour, as Arthur had noticed before. "To be honest, a good book would suit me best at the moment."

Arthur stood up as well, straightening his shirt and smoothing down his pants. He also wasn't keen on further exploration at this point, mainly because eating always made him sleepy, especially on leisurely spring afternoons.

Thus, the young actor nodded his consent. "Actually, I agree. A good book would be nice."

Alfred smiled and made his way around the table. "Paradise Lost?" he asked.

Arthur followed after Alfred without thought, shooting the man a quizzical look. "I've never read it."

Alfred laughed and shook his head. "That's not what I meant," he murmured, his American accent returning. It was doing that quite often today, and Arthur had to admit that he didn't mind it one bit. "Should we go and read in that little courtyard where I found you before?"

"I think that's a good idea," the young actor replied, smiling a little. He liked that place, for it reminded him of some secluded haven meant for only those pure of soul—_well, you're not really all that pure of soul if you're constantly lying through your teeth_, his mind was quick to remind him, making Arthur's smile falter a little. _It's not lying; it's avoidance_, he argued back. His mind spoke to him often, and it was usually good at reminding him of important things. However, today, he wished it would just be quiet. _Lying_, it repeated. Arthur inwardly rolled his eyes and sighed. _We'll settle on creative truth telling._

Alfred walked up the stairs and down the hall with Arthur sauntering along beside him. It was a section that Arthur had never explored in either manor, though he assumed that since the rest of the layout was generally the same between the two, this hallway would look quite similar in the guest house as well.

"Is there anything specific you want to read?" Alfred asked as they came upon two large oak doors. Alfred pulled the left one open and held it there, gesturing for Arthur to go first. Normally, the young actor would have refused, on grounds of status, but he was far too used to being Elizabeth by now to even notice what was happening.

"No..." Arthur replied, trailing off as he stepped in and froze. He was suddenly surrounded by books, and he stared in wonder as he realized, painfully slowly, that this must have been the library. Arthur jumped a little when the door clicked shut behind him.

"What do you think?" Alfred admired his collection, hands in his pockets. It wasn't anything close to a grand library, and it probably held only around one hundred books, mostly given to him by his father and mother. One could easily tell which were which, mainly because the ones given to Alfred by the Duke were dusty or hidden off to the side. They were seldom touched. Tomes like _Oliver Twist _or _Vanity Fair_, on the other hand, which were given to him by his mother, were almost pristine in their condition, though the cracks in their spines spoke of constant use and reuse.

Arthur wandered farther into the room and took a look at the first shelf he encountered. He pulled out a book at random. "You read..." Arthur paused and stared at the book as if it were something he had just found growing grotesquely under the sink. "_'On the Origin of Species __by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life_'?" he asked, incredulous.

Alfred winced. "That's my father's," he said smoothly. It technically wasn't a lie.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief and put the book back. For a moment there, he thought he might have been in jeopardy of sitting under a tree lightly reading _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ as Alfred perused his latest edition of... Arthur searched the shelves for another dull title... Ephraim Chamber's _Cyclopaedia: or, An Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences._ The young actor wasn't quite ready for his newly formed opinion of Alfred to be shattered once again.

Alfred walked over to join Arthur by the shelves. "Feel free to pick anything that catches your eye."

The actor's eyes passed by title after title, trying to process it—_any_ of it. There were just so many books, and the shelves ran on and on. Sure, it didn't compare to a bookshop's wares, but for a private collection, this was vast, in Arthur's opinion.

"Well," he murmured vaguely, distracted by the shelves, "you know I'm in the middle of _Wuthering Heights_."

The Marquess turned. "Oh? You haven't finished?" He flashed Arthur a dangerous grin. "Does that mean you've yet to find out that Nelly is—"

"_Alfred!_" Arthur slammed the book he was examining into the shelf with enough force to make it shake. He glared at the Marquess, who was grinning right back, obviously pleased with himself. "Don't you _dare_ tell me the ending."

Alfred threw his head back and laughed. Arthur's reactions were priceless. "I won't, I won't," he assured Arthur, waving his hand dismissively. "I am not so cruel."

The young actor glared for a moment more before returning his gaze to the bookshelf, brushing off the cover of the poor book Alfred had just caused him to abuse. "I wouldn't put it past you," Arthur muttered, making Alfred, who was just recovering from his previous bout, break into laughter once again.

* * *

"... And then he proceeded—can you believe it?—to tell me that I was _'poorly misjudging the situation,'_" Alfred said, his half British, half American voice taking on a slightly rolling lilt as he impersonated the Spanish Count of Castile. It made for quite an interesting accent in the end, actually.

Arthur burst out laughing, unable to help himself. The story was far too hilarious, especially with that ending. Oh, he wished he could meet this Count, just to see whether or not he was as ridiculously pompous as Alfred made him seem. Of course, Arthur might actually get the chance to do just that someday, considering the breath and depth of aristocratic connections. Elizabeth would have to make some sort of Spanish noble acquaintance at some point, and that would be just a short jump over to the Count of Castile himself.

Alfred laughed as well, his aristocratic chuckle having been left behind long ago, in exchange for a more natural, brighter tone—one which Arthur found he actually liked very much. They had been talking for hours as they sat in that same chaise lounge from before, exchanging stories about their lives—although, it was mainly Alfred sharing his tales of wonder and woe on the subject of the daily life of a nobleman. Arthur was starting to learn that Alfred really wasn't like the other aristocrats whatsoever—something which he had realized before, but had never learned the extent to which that was the case until now. Arthur also gleaned that the Marquess also counted _himself_ as apart from the other nobles, making him all the more agreeable in Arthur's opinion.

Their books lay discarded on their laps as the setting sun cast fantastical shadows on the ground beside them. Arthur had borrowed Alfred's copy of _Wuthering Heights_—a copy which was well used, he noted—and had started right where he had left off. Alfred, on the other hand, had brought with him a book Arthur had never heard of, entitled _The Cloister and the Hearth_, which the Marquess admitted was "quite boring and overly religious," but he felt obligated to finish it now that he had started.

However, soon enough, Alfred's interest in his book had waned, and he started leaning in and reading over Arthur's shoulder, making the young actor stiff and uncomfortable. He had felt Alfred's gentle breath against his neck, causing his hairs to raise on end. The Marquess seemed to have felt no qualms about the proximity, and it confused Arthur very much that he, on the other hand, _was_. After all, they were both men, and such proximity was not unheard of between two friends.

After a while, the two of them had begun to talk, mainly because Arthur had found himself unable to focus, and Alfred had kept complaining that the actor was flipping pages far too slowly. Arthur eventually just placed the book down on his lap, right beside the one Alfred had abandoned long ago, and then they just started talking.

"I believe it is my turn now," Alfred murmured as he settled down from laughter. They had naturally fallen into a rhythm of asking and answering questions, and it was now Alfred's move to ask. "Now tell me, Arthur. Why do you know how to read?"

The young actor paused and looked up, not sure how to answer. Well, they had been quite honest up until this point—or at least Arthur had been; he had to take Alfred at his word that the man was doing the same—thus, with a mental shrug, Arthur saw that it as natural that he might as well continue doing the same. Plus, the truth in this instance didn't seem to do any harm.

"My mother taught me," Arthur explained, quite sure that nobles couldn't fault someone for being literate. "She read to me when I was young, and though I never went to grammar school as a child, she made sure I had the best education she could give me."

Alfred leaned back and smiled. He closed his eyes, memories of his own mother fading in and out of his consciousness. "Your mother sounds like a wonderful lady," he observed.

"She is." Arthur smiled a little, thinking about all the times his mother had patiently sat at their table, waiting for the bread to rise in the oven. She would stay beside him as he read through some simple sentences she had written out, and would give him a slice of the freshly baked bread as a reward, no matter how badly he did his job.

The young actor glanced at the Marquess, who seemed blissfully oblivious to life at the moment, sitting there relaxed with closed eyes. Arthur realized, not for the first time, that he knew nothing about Alfred's mother. He didn't even know her name, let alone what she was like. Had she read to Alfred when he was a child too?

Arthur opened his mouth to ask, but was cut off by Alfred's words. "I believe I owe her much thanks for making the job of teaching you how to be Elizabeth Percy much easier." He opened his eyes and regarded Arthur with warm amusement. "And I guess she also indirectly made this day very enjoyable for me, for I never knew you could read so well."_  
_

The young actor averted his eyes and blushed. Alfred rarely complimented him like that, with a gentle voice and kind eyes. There was no joke that Arthur could sense, and that made him embarrassed. "That's not... I don't read _that_ well."

A mischievous smile tugged at the corners of Alfred's lips. He shrugged. "You're right. You don't."

Arthur scrambled around to stare at Alfred. "Now wait a second! I didn't—"

"Arthur, _Arthur_," the Marquess murmured, holding up a finger which automatically silenced the actor. "Let me bask in the moment. It's been a while since you've admitted to any of your _many_ faults after all."

Arthur coughed, his expression shifting from one of surprise to that of complete indignance. "Me? _Faults?_ Let _me_ to bask in the moment, Alfred, and appreciate the irony of what you just said."

The Marquess brought a hand up to his chest in mock offense, his accent naturally sliding back to polite British. "Pardon me, Mr. Kirkland. I happen to think that I have no faults whatsoever that I must recognize or atone for."

The young actor rolled his eyes. "That isn't the least bit surprising," he muttered under his breath, making Alfred shake with silent laughter. "You have many, I can assure you."

Alfred turned on Arthur. "Really, now?" Arthur sure had gotten comfortable with this relationship in the past three weeks if he could now so openly accuse Alfred of his faults as well as hit him earlier in the day.

Alfred's eyes glinted challengingly. "If you presume to know me so well, please enlighten me about some of my flaws."

The young actor leaned back so that they were now shoulder to shoulder. "Gladly." He returned Alfred's challenging look with one of equal edge as he continued. "First of all, you are far too arrogant."

Alfred smiled. "And you are far too pessimistic," he returned.

"Oh, I'm not finished yet, Alfred," the actor reassured. "You have a skewed view of the world, and somehow in that world-view, you are the most handsome person you have ever known."

Alfred nodded. "All right. I'll admit that that's probably true." He smirked slyly and leaned over. "Although... do you disagree?"

A slight breeze had blown a few strands of Alfred's hair in front of his face, and the sudden proximity allowed Arthur to observe something he had never seen before: Alfred's deep blue eyes had a smattering of silver flecks around the iris, which Arthur imagined might look like flint catching fire when it was observed directly in sunlight. Those flecks added greater dimension to those already alluring eyes, and the sight of them temporarily stopped Arthur's thoughts in the middle of forming a reply.

"... Yes..." he murmured absentmindedly, his eyes transfixed on Alfred's. Arthur was thinking that it was completely unfair for anyone to be born with such captivating eyes—which, ironically, was along the lines of what Alfred was thinking at that moment as well, as he was staring right back at Arthur's vivid ones with less obvious but just as vehement admiration.

The Marquess's lips quirked upward and he broke away his gaze, turning his eyes to the gold and orange sky. "You know, you don't sound very convincing."

Arthur shook himself out of the moment. He crossed his arms and turned away, nose raised upward with with a scoff. His ears felt hot, and he knew that was not the work of this warm evening in May.

"You are absolutely _awful_ when it comes to looks," Arthur muttered, sounding very unconvincing.

Alfred laughed. "And you are absolutely awful when it comes to acting that you aren't attracted to me," he teased. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he was approaching thin ice, and alarm bells rang throughout his head. _Stop, before you dig yourself into a hole you're not prepared to face_, his mind warned. But Alfred's fun loving, ever challenging side ignored his conscience, for the second time that day. He wanted to see just how far he could push the young actor.

Arthur whirled around, no longer concerned with hiding his flushed face. "_What?_" he asked accusingly. That was an absurd idea. How could Alfred be so blaisé about such taboo subjects, even in jest? And why did such a statement send his heart racing?

Alfred looked at Arthur with mild interest, averting his eyes from the riveting sky. "I'm sure you heard me," he murmured, his tone laced with a challenge. "You're attracted to me." _Careful there, chap_, his mind warned once again, though the warning fell on deaf ears._  
_

Arthur stared at Alfred openly, a cross between disgust and shocking horror evident on his face. "How can you... How can you even _say_ that with a straight face? Do you understand what you're implying?" His mind was working quickly, trying to process his sudden slew of feelings.

The Marquess looked up at the umbrella, studying its spokes with great interest. After a moment, he replied with a small smile, "I can assure you that I understand exactly what I'm implying." If Arthur had actually been listening, he probably would have sensed that the tone was more sad than anything else. That smile on Alfred's face was there just for show, for on the inside, Alfred's heart was beating wildly. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring this subject up, but now that it was here, he had to swallow his fear and just run with it. Suddenly changing it would have made him more suspicious.

Arthur tsked and made to stand up, and Alfred reached out, catching the actor's arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "Don't." Arthur froze. Alfred was using that stupid commanding tone of his quite often recently, and it was grating on Arthur's already agitated nerves.

The actor turned around. "Let me go," he demanded, and to his surprise, Alfred did. In one swift motion, the actor was up on his feet, his book falling onto the pebbles with a thud. Arthur crossed his arms and glared disdainfully down at the Marquess. "You _disgust_ me."

Alfred bit back a grimace. That hurt more than Arthur could ever know. The slight frown disappeared from Alfred's face, and was replaced by a truly apologetic look. He looked into Arthur's eyes, letting some of his regret show through. Bringing this up had been a stupid idea, and it had been one of his worst whim-based actions he had carried out in a long while. Yet there was no way he could have known it would have elicited this reaction. He had thought it was perfectly along the lines of his regular teasing.

"Arthur, I'm—"

"I don't care," the actor muttered, turning on his heels. He began to walk to another arch across the one from which they had come through before.

Alfred hurried to get up and ran after Arthur, placing a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "No, Arthur. Really, I—"

Arthur wrenched himself free and whirled around. "I said, _I don't care_. You have gone too far this time, Alfred." His face was flushed with what Alfred guessed was anger. Pure, unadulterated anger. And hatred. The Marquess fought the urge to wince. This mistake was worse than he had previously thought.

The young actor turned once again and disappeared through the arch and out of sight. Alfred watched him go, cursing his own stupidity. His father had said that his whim-based and teasing life would come back to bite him someday, yet Alfred had never believed it until now. And now he wished he had heeded those words so much more.

Alfred stared at the empty archway for a moment more before turning back around and falling down upon the chaise lounge, feeling suddenly very cold despite the warm evening. This chair also felt so much bigger than he had remembered it in years past; it seemed like the maker had meant it as a chair for two, though Alfred had only just discovered that today. Would he ever get to experience that again? he lamented. Did his own teasing stupidity break something for good?

The Marquess covered his eyes with his arm. The sheer disgust on Arthur's face had been enough to make even sewage feel self-conscious, and Alfred liked to consider himself far above the level of waste water. The day had been going so well, and they had been making so much progress in their relationship... Alfred sighed. He never knew that Arthur hated love between two men so much.

In reality, though, Arthur _didn't _hate love between two men. He was still unsure of his exact opinion on the matter, but it surely was not unadulterated antagonism or repugnance. As he wandered through the maze of a garden, uncaring as to where his feet would lead him, Arthur knew that much for sure.

He remembered clearly the stricken look on Alfred's face as he looked upon Arthur's own repulsed expression. Clearly, Alfred misunderstood, for the disgust that he felt was not directed at that intangible idea of romance between males. Arthur's pace quickened. In fact, his disgust wasn't even directed at Alfred, if he was honest with himself—something which was very difficult to do at the moment, because the truth was nearly impossible to face. Alfred had simply been his usual, aggravatingly teasing self, and it had been Arthur who had changed the game. It wasn't Alfred's fault, for he had acted like he always did. Arthur had overreacted.

And why had he done that? Well, the answer was simple—a bit too simple for the actor's tastes: Alfred had made him realize something. Those words, when they had been spoken, hit a nerve: Alfred was right.

Arthur _was_ attracted to him.

And the thought of that made the actor nothing less than thoroughly disgusted in _himself._

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

You have no idea how hard I've been trying to work on this chapter. It really is uncooperative, and it's taken me a long time to wrestle it to this point. I don't think it's the best one I've written of this story, and I'm sorry about that. It's been scrapped and completely rewritten twice already, and I've practically done nothing but write all day yesterday and today. This is the best I can do. -_-"

I've gotten a good amount of replies for the question last time, and since I haven't written anything from them yet, I won't put up another question until I have. Speaking of which, this coming four or five weeks will probably be very irregular. I've been trying to update once a week, and I think I've been doing that quite well, but the Christmas/New Years season changes that. I may or may not be able to keep up the once a week regimen, but I'm letting you know just in case I can't. These coming weeks are going to be very busy (plus, after wrestling out chapter six, I need a break. And a good glass of mango lassi).

For those of you who haven't sent me some story suggestion yet, you definitely still can if you want to! I haven't picked anything yet, and the greater the selection, the better. I've gotten some really crazy ones so far. When I said give me a challenge, you all really took that to heart, didn't you?

For those of you who reviewed as guests, I'm sorry I can't reply to you. I want to, but, obviously, there is no way that I can without being public about it, which I don't want to do. So I want to say thank you, at least. I appreciate each and every review, and I've prided myself in replying to every single one. If you guys take the time to not only read, but to also review, the least I can do is devote some time in my day to give you an answer, or at least thank you. You guys are very important to me. =]

With that being said, I'm going to bed. I am so tired, and just like Arthur was earlier in the chapter, I am tired of braised duck and champagne and gold and Alfred and Arthur and teasing and dialogue and all that other crap. My futon suddenly looks so much more comfortable than usual.

Happy reading!  
Galythia

P.S. Longest chapter yet! Woohoo!


	8. Don't Ask, Don't Tell

_"A man can hide all things, excepting twain —_  
_That he is drunk, and that he is in love."_

- Antiphanes of Macedon -

* * *

**.: 7. Don't Ask, Don't Tell :.**

* * *

Arthur poured water into the basin with undue force, sending the liquid splashing over the edges and onto the floor. Arthur didn't care, tilting the pitcher even further in his rush. He needed was something cold and startling on his face.

Now.

Slamming the pitcher down, the actor splashed water onto his flushed cheeks, messy drops staining the oriental carpet below. He would apologize to Oswald later—later when he had ability to talk to anyone at all, that is.

Arthur took a deep breath, and without hesitation, he submerged his whole face in the basin, nearly gasping in surprise as the icy sensation slammed into him—

Almost as strongly as the truth had, back in the garden.

As Arthur had trudged unseeingly past the bluebells and primroses earlier that evening, his shoulders sagged with the weight of Alfred's words, which haunted him as they kept repeating in the unfortunate actor's mind. _"You're attracted to me," _said that deliciously seductive voice—the voice that had only been joking like usual, and the young actor had been the one to take it too far.

Arthur had always considered himself an honest person, never failing to be the first to apologize when he realized he was wrong, or the first to defend his ideas when he thought he was right. His mother constantly praised him for it, and he himself was quite proud of it. Arthur had never saw that honesty as a double edged sword—until now. For now that he had realized this specific truth, this cursed honesty denied him the pleasure of ever going back.

Arthur was born and raised Anglican, and as such, for obvious reasons, he had problems with this newfound attraction. Though his parents weren't the strictest of adherents, they did participate in the standard regimen of practices, such as going to church and teaching their children the Bible and its laws. Arthur knew the Anglican doctrine as well as he knew... He searched his mind for a good simile—well, _another_ simile, for the first thing his mind settled on was "Alfred's face." Yes, Arthur knew the Anglican beliefs as well as he knew Alfred's face, from the contours of that chiseled jaw-line to the curves of those abundant eyelashes...

That thought wasn't making his religious crisis any better.

Gasping for air, Arthur wrenched his head back, sputtering. He grappled around for the towel as he shook his head free of water, his thoughts clearer now, but just as unhelpful. It wasn't even conjecture—it was _fact_—that Arthur was physically attracted to the Marquess. Now that the actor had time to think about it, he realized that he had memorized practically everything about Alfred's physical form, from the lean of his gait (very slightly to the left on days when he was in a rush, though always perfectly in line when he was gearing up to dance) to the blemishes on his face (like that small mole right under his left ear, which he had a habit of scratching when thinking too hard).

Apparently, Arthur had been doing a lot more staring than he had consciously noticed.

Of course, a lot of the staring had been done under a pseudonym, surrounded by many others who were doing much the same to their respective conversation partners. It had been the natural course of action for such a situation to stare. That should have made Arthur feel better, but it served to make Arthur feel worse, for now he was also confused. Was this his own attraction, or was this Elizabeth seeping over where she shouldn't have been?

Arthur soaked the towel with some basin water and proceeded to scrub fiercely at his face, his hands, his arms. Maybe if he rubbed hard enough, this unnatural feeling would flake off along with his dead skin. The cold water was already doing wonders, cooling down his flushed face and organizing his thoughts.

Of course, what his thoughts had been organized _into_ was a complete different matter.

The young actor gave up after a few minutes of vicious scouring, his skin raw and inflamed. The towel had left behind tracks of stinging redness which heated up in rebellion to Arthur's harsh treatment. But it had done at least a little of its job. Although Arthur was still fully aware of Alfred's physical beauty in a way he did _not_ appreciate, at least the physical pain of the scrub was slowly easing away the pain of his conflicted heart, and that allowed Arthur enough space of mind to at least reason with himself. And he had always been good at that.

Standing up, Arthur paced over to his bed and flung himself down, letting his wet hair soak the pillow through. Was this Elizabeth's attraction? Was he just too deep in his role that he was now living that in person, even when he wasn't wearing the face to match? Arthur closed his eyes and imagined Francis Bonnefoy's roughly shaven visage, hoping, for the first and, God help him, the last time, that he would find that predatory grin attractive as well.

But no. All that arose from his gut was disgust, tinged with hatred and a bit of fear. And hearing that nasally laughter in his ear only made Arthur's blood boil and raised his desire to punch a wall.

Arthur groaned and rolled over. Apparently, this attraction was his and his alone.

Arthur found some small comfort in the knowledge that, while he was physically attracted to Alfred, he was by no means emotionally equally inclined. There was at least that saving grace. Alfred was a still that same noble who was insufferable for the majority of his existence, and although they were friends (for Arthur had accepted that by now, in light of more demented realizations), that was all they were.

Well, all they had been. Arthur was unsure where they stood now, and, come to think of it, he was also unsure as to whose fault that was.

A knock at the door sent Arthur careening out of his thoughts, causing him to jump up so that he was leaning on his elbows.

"I'm not hungry, Oswald," the young actor immediately said, hoping he sounded more relaxed than he felt. The last thing he wanted was some more fuss about a doctor, especially when that would most likely involve "fetching Master Jones" again.

There was some silence from the door before an unmistakable voice replied softly, "What a coincidence. Neither am I."

Arthur froze in his half sitting up half laying down position. His eyes widened, and his mouth hung half open, ready to say something, but then again, not ready to say anything at all.

Alfred saved him the trouble. "Arthur, may we talk?"

The actor stared for a bit before he slowly shook his head, completely forgetting that there was a door blocking Alfred's field of vision. No. No talking. Not right now. Not when all Arthur could think about were religious sins, betrayal of personal beliefs, and, worst of all, those one-of-a-kind blue eyes, which, by somebody's fault (he still couldn't tell whose), had been extinguished of all light the last time Arthur had seen them.

The Marquess took the silence as an invitation to continue. "May I come i―"

"No!" Arthur had found his voice, if only to say the one word he wanted to say about everything. **No.** No sinning. No depravity. No immorality. No corruption. No attractions.

No, to all of this horrid _aberration_.

There was silence that seemed to weigh down upon the room like a thick layer of fresh snow—nowhere near as pure, but surely just as cold. Arthur heard nothing from outside, though he could almost imagine Alfred standing stiffly behind the door. His actor's observations in the past (well, he'd like to think they were _just_ an actor's observations, even though his mind knew better by now) enabled him to imagine Alfred's posture perfectly: slight weight on his left leg, confused furrow in his brow, one hand in his pocket, the other frozen halfway to the door handle.

"Please?" Alfred pleaded, almost too soft to hear, and the pain in his voice was almost enough to make Arthur give in.

Almost.

"No," Arthur repeated, softer but a little firmer, as if trying to convince himself as well that this was the right course of action. To be honest, he had no idea what to do right now, but having the object of his physical attraction standing there in the flesh was not going to help. Arthur needed time to think.

Alfred was still for a moment before letting his shoulders drop along with any hope he had of reconciliation. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before his lips fell to a sad grimace.

"... Then at least allow me to apologize," he murmured. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I am really, really sorry." And he was. Alfred had learnt his lesson in the two hours he had just spent aimlessly wandering his own garden, searching for the actor. He had never regretted making the garden so vast and maze-like more so than he had then.

Arthur's eyes were glued to the door. "Don't be," he wanted to call out, but the words stuck in his throat with as much stubbornness as the image of Alfred's broken eyes stuck in his mind. How did the man manage to still look so attractive while holding such a forlorn expression?

Before Arthur could formulate any reply, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps retreating softly down the hall.

Arthur let out a low growl of irritation. Flipping back over, he stared pointedly at the wall. Part of him wondered if he should go to General Confession, while another part of him irrationally wanted to keep the idea of Alfred all to himself—

Which was crazy. Alfred wasn't his to have, and he definitely wasn't his to even want to have. And Arthur _didn't_ want to have him, he was quite sure. Elizabeth did, but she, Arthur was fast learning, was a spirit sent by the devil to rebel against Arthur's own ideals.

The young actor squeezed his eyes shut, pulling another pillow up to his chest. His skin felt like it was overrun with ants, his body tingled like what Arthur thought being dipped in acid would feel like. He was in pain, both of body and of heart.

_Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination_.

Well, he hadn't _lain_ with Alfred, Arthur thought desperately. He was quite sure he felt nothing more for Alfred than he did for William, and although that was already far more than he ever expected to feel toward any noble, let alone this specific teasing, irritating, admittedly handsome noble, it was not to the point of _sinning_—technically. Arthur wasn't emotionally attached, and, at this point, that made all the difference to him for his heart and the salvation of his soul.

Of course, Arthur pointedly ignored the fact that this reasoning was based off his own conveniently loose interpretation of Leviticus. His mother probably hadn't meant that when she had told him to "make the Bible his own."

Arthur rolled over, pulling the blanket with him so that the soft duvet wrapped around like a cocoon. He snuggled down, wishing some of that warmth could comfort his soul as much as it did his body. Arthur groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

This situation was an utterly hopeless mess. He had overreacted, run away, spun the joke into a much bigger matter than it ever needed to be, and now... Well, just when he had accepted that they might have been friends, they possibly no longer were.

And worst of all, Arthur didn't know whether he should yell at Alfred or apologize to him for it.

* * *

Alfred let the heavy piece of coal roll around in his mouth, for that's what his cut of veal might as well have been, seeing as he was in no mood to taste anything else. The Marquess washed the lump down with some overly sour wine, then gave up on eating altogether, clinking his utensils down on his plate. With a sigh, Alfred slumped down in his chair.

The guest house dining room had never looked this cold and forsaken to Alfred before. The deep brown and vibrant reds should have brought some warmth to the room, but all it actually did was make Alfred yearn for the umber that was Arthur's robe, and the crimson that were his cheeks—both colors that were glaringly missing from view at the present moment.

This was Alfred's fourth dinner at the guest house by himself. He had stubbornly held out, insisting on dinner here every night, just in case Arthur found it in his heart to show up. Alfred even retired to the ballroom afterward, where he did paperwork far into the night, in the hopes that Arthur would at least continue dancing lessons. But, apparently, even _that_ tradition was being ignored in light of these recent developments.

The Marquess slumped down further, letting out an unusual sigh to match his uncharacteristic posture. Then again, perhaps he was being more characteristic than ever. It took a great deal to get the Alfred to reveal his true self, even in private—and apparently, a "great deal" came by the name of Arthur Kirkland.

"You're a fool," he chided himself, rolling that "r" around his tongue with the same awkward twist as he had the piece of veal before. He sounded more American than he had in years—so much so that it startled even himself, for the sound was as foreign to his ears as the feel was to his lips. Yet, in rare times of extremely great stress (and in times of great comfort, but let's face it, that feeling hadn't made an appearance in nearly a decade), Alfred fell back to his mother's tongue naturally.

That thought brought a wry smile to the Marquess's face. _Mother's tongue and mother tongue._ How often they seemed at odds with each other, like two parents bickering over a confused and lost child, who, by no fault of his own, was unfortunately stuck in the middle.

Alfred blew his unkempt hair out of his face with a lazy puff of air, for the weight of guilt on his shoulders rendered him immobile to do much else. He wanted to kick, scream and whine in frustration, but unfortunately, being a man of twenty-five gave him no such option. Thus, Alfred tried his best to be his own adult.

_Tell me what happened_, his mind coaxingly asked.

_... I was a fool. _A sullen reply, but he felt like an immature child at the moment, so it would do just fine.

_Explain._

_I was an absolute fool. What else is there to say? A _bloody_ fool, if you want "true" English._

_You know that's not what I mean._

_... You stickler for detail. I pushed Arthur too far. Happy? _Alfred closed his eyes. _That day was supposed to be a good one. I took a day off, he took a day off, and we were supposed to... to...__  
_

_Supposed to what?_

_... I don't know. _The Marquess crossed his arms and groaned in frustration. _Become friends?_

_Friends? I thought you "didn't need" friends._

_I don't_, he replied quickly. _Not friends._

_So what about Arthur?_

_What about him?_

If his mind could roll its eyes, it would have. _Stop being difficult._

_I'm not! I don't know about Arthur, okay? I don't know what I want! When I'm around him, I just... _Alfred glanced around the room, and his eyes fell on the vacant seat from where those bright emerald eyes had so often glared at him in the past. Alfred was prepared to give quite a lot to get those eyes to glare at him again.

_It's actually when I'm not around him_, he corrected._ I feel... lonely._

_All of a sudden, this bothers you? Now you need friends?_

Alfred's lips twisted to a half thoughtful frown, half childish pout. Being an adult was tough.

..._ One_ _friend_, he decided, with difficulty._ No plural._

His mind actually laughed at him. _Who's a stickler for detail now? _

Alfred growled, willing his conscience to just be quiet this once. Usually, it wasn't that opinionated, and it tended to leave him alone, even when he was up to his conniving, teasing ways. It rarely inputted its mature thought on his daily life, but, when it needed to, it was far too good at its job.

_Am I to understand that you're guilt ridden because you destroyed something that was working?_

_... You have a wonderful way of phrasing matters. _Alfred wished his mind had a physical manifestation so he could glare at it. Maybe he should go in search for a mirror.

_Don't avoid the subject._

_I'm not avoiding anything. I admit it. It was working. It was going according to plan—_my plan_, might I remind you—and then I... _Alfred sighed. _I murdered the babe that was this relationship, just days after its birth._ He grimaced, his mouth tasting coppery._ Now please tell me you are satisfied._

_Not at all. You've yet to fix it. This is no way for a gentleman to act, Alfred. Apologize._

_I've tried! _Alfred rolled his eyes and uncrossed his legs. He _had_ tried. Countless times over the past four days, when he had time off from his own hectic schedule, Alfred dropped by Arthur's door. But the actor either was not in, or constantly chose to ignore anything Alfred had to say. And Arthur, as Elizabeth, actually kept himself more busy than the Marquess had ever thought was possible, paying more private visits, practicing more piano, studying with more vigor. With his bustling schedule, it was a miracle that he even had time to sleep, let alone lend an ear to Alfred's pleas for forgiveness.

_I never meant to offend him. I was just..._

_Testing. Like you do with everyone who ever gets close to you. _

The Marquess grumbled something under his breath. Yes, he had been testing. Yes, it was something he did with every person who was in danger of gaining a higher status in his eyes than just mere "acquaintance." Alfred always needed to know how each person felt on the one issue that was possibly the most near and dear to his heart—and so far, including Arthur, allies were still zero for the count.

Alfred made a point of ignoring the sly French Ambassador Bonnefoy in that enumeration. What he had with Francis meant as much to Alfred as a dead rat in the gutter—that is to say, it disgusted him to no end.

_Well, I hate to tell you, old chap. He failed your test. But really, is that a surprise?_

Alfred uttered a dry laugh. "No." _He and the rest of society. _Alfred took another sip of that unpalatable wine, hoping the acidic sourness would burn away the heavy taste in his mouth.

_But that means he's not the first, Alfred, _his mind reasoned._ So, get out of this _ridiculous_ stupor._

_I don't want to._ Being childishly stubborn was Alfred's best defense mechanism.

_Why?_

Alfred sluggishly picked back up his utensils and practically dragged them across the plate. He sawed at the veal with lackluster movements, but he needed a distraction from his mind. Being an adult for himself was a lot harder than he had thought it would be, and it took far more energy than he had to give.

_Alfred_, his mind warned, _g__ive me a reason_. The Marquess chewed, the veal tasting even blander now than it did before. He knew he shouldn't have been avoiding this (his conscience made that clear enough), but in all honesty, the guilt was far too overwhelming for him to face it in any other way. Alfred had come to see now that his father had been right, and_ that_ was very tough medicine to swallow. The Duke had told him time and time again, yet Alfred hadn't listened. The Marquess had been too carefree and too playful.

In other words, he had been too much like himself, yet not like himself at all.

_Alfred, give me a reason. Arthur isn't the first to fail that silly test of yours, so why are you throwing a tantrum about something so trifling? _

_It's _not _trifling!_ His heart was quick to defend even when his mind was still unsure.

_Isn't it? He's just a peasant._

_... He's _not_ just a peasant... and..._ Alfred racked his mind for the right words, his brain finally catching up to his heart's feelings._ It's... It's_ not_ trifling_, he admitted bitterly, his stubborn will breaking apart. Setting down his utensils, he gave up on eating once again. _Arthur isn't the first and he won't be the last to fail, but somehow, this is different._ Alfred closed his eyes. _He's...  
_

_Important?_

_... Important._

Alfred saw it now. He didn't need friends. He didn't need lovers. He didn't need gold, or fame, or power, or any of these other easily dispensable things.

Alfred just needed a pair of emerald eyes to glare at him from across the dining table—and though he still had no idea what those eyes meant to him just yet—he knew for sure that then, and only then, would all be right with the world.

* * *

Elizabeth fiddled with the hem of the tablecloth, her eyes averted from that luringly salacious gaze. Her cheeks were flushed, as they always seemed to be in this man's presence, and her heart was palpitating with undue tension. Francis Bonnefoy never failed to put her on edge, in a way that was so irresistibly delicious yet darkly terrifying at the same time. Were her muscles tense because she wanted to run away in fear or jump onto his lap then and there?

"Madame," he purred, leaning in. "You seem awfully on edge tonight." The man's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "What is ze matter?" Arthur couldn't tell whether or not the Frenchman was flirting or concerned—or perhaps, in a twisted way, he was both.

"Nothing is wrong," Elizabeth assured him, still looking down demurely. Arthur felt like he was trapped in a box, the walls of which were steadily closing in from all sides. He didn't need this aggravating Frenchman right now, especially when he could barely concentrate on acting as Elizabeth around mere strangers, his mind far too occupied on that _other matter_.

This was the fifth night since that incident, and despite the passing time, Arthur still had great difficulty thinking about anything but that. Nothing had been resolved between Alfred and Arthur, and the actor knew that it was somewhat his own fault that that was the case. Arthur didn't actively avoid Alfred, per se, mainly because he was so busy every day, but it wasn't like he had argued against the onerous schedule the Count and Countess had dictated for him either.

Thus, Arthur had been carted around and displayed to all sorts of people in all manners of places, from countryside villas in the early morning to fancy dance halls at night. By now, he normally would have begged for a break, considering that he was starting to dream in Elizabeth's voice, which was surely a bad thing.

But then again, Arthur could imagine nothing worse than facing Alfred once again.

A rolling French voice brought the actor out of his whirlpool of thoughts. "Are you sure, madame? Might you be sick?" Ambassador Bonnefoy's eyebrows creased with worry, and he raised his hand to lightly cover Elizabeth's on the table in a concerned gesture.

Arthur inwardly grimaced. _Alfred would never make such an obviously calculated move._

And there Arthur's mind was again, back for another round of thinking about that damned Marquess. Apparently, no matter what he was doing or who he was with, Arthur never deviated his thoughts too far from that shining man, who had eyes too riveting, a smile too beguiling, and a figure that would have put any competitive horseman to shame.

Arthur's cheeks burned with embarrassment at the impure images floating through his mind. Keeping Elizabeth in line was already hard enough without Alfred invading his every thought with his distractingly bewitching looks.

Francis's eyes darkened with further anxiety, seeing Elizabeth's cheeks inflamed and her eyes unfocused. His pressure on Elizabeth's hand increased. "Why are you frowning, Lady Percy? Is my company so disdained?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened with surprise, and Arthur inwardly cursed. Apparently, his grimace hadn't been hidden as well as he had thought.

"No, no, monsieur Bonnefoy," Elizabeth was quick to reply, glancing up at last. "I can assure you that it is quite the opposite. I—" She paused.

_I what? _The girl blushed and looked away once again, hoping to cover up her near mistake. "I-I _am_ feeling a bit faint, though, now that you've mentioned it." She had almost let out the world "love" in this man's company (much to Arthur's absolute horror), and this relationship was nowhere close to such a level yet. Prudence dictated that either party wait until wait until at least June for such developments—and Arthur was hoping that the three weeks between now and then would hold out for all eternity.

Francis's shoulders did not relax. He stood up in one swift, graceful movement and took Elizabeth's hand with him. Bowing low, he murmured, "Then it is my duty, madame, to see that you get home safely."

"That is unnecessary, monsieur," Arthur quickly replied, desperate. Elizabeth, pulled into the moment, had stood up with Francis, but Arthur had pulled her back down. The result was a swaying motion that further supported her "faint feeling."

Monsieur Bonnefoy rushed in (seeing his chance for _other_ developments, Arthur was sure), and he took Elizabeth into his arms, "desperately" looking around for assistance. The Count and Countess, however, had gone to another room, and most other nobles tended to stay out of as much drama as possible, often having enough of their own to deal with as it was. Thus, Francis was without help in this matter—and Arthur would have bet all of his wages that the ambassador did not mind the burden of that duty whatsoever.

Elizabeth shivered in the warm man's arms. Her body was trembling, and she wasn't sure if it really was sickness or if it was the affect of being so close to this treacherously beautiful man. Perhaps it was both, a malady of the body and a malady of the heart.

"Let me get you to another room, madame," Ambassador Bonnefoy murmured, supporting Elizabeth as he pulled her up. Elizabeth shivered as Francis's breath caressed her cheeks.

Arthur was fully aware of the lecherous hand around his waist, but could do nothing to prevent it without breaking character. Thus, instead he acted even more debilitated, in hopes that when Francis finally let Elizabeth down, the man would make no further moves for fear of "damaging her delicate constitution," or however the aristocracy liked to phrase things.

The ambassador explained the situation in an urgent voice to the vaguely concerned nobles around them, the majority of whom, Arthur noticed, rushed to move out of the way rather than to assist. Arthur saw looks of pity and concern on their faces as Francis helped Elizabeth by, and the actor couldn't help taking those glances personally. After all, Arthur was spending a_ fine_ evening stuck with this annoying man, acting as a character who was desperately idiotic, and staying out of sight of the one person he wanted to see the least yet needed the most at the moment.

_What a "delicate" situation_, he thought bitterly.

Ambassador Bonnefoy tightened his grip on Elizabeth, whom Arthur was fiercely struggling to control. She wanted to fall into Francis's arms like a damsel in distress, whereas Arthur was trying his best to convince his own legs that they were perfectly capable of walking without the gait of a drunkard. It was a war that he felt ridiculous in fighting, for it was, after all, _his own body_. Plus, Arthur was sure he would have done a better job of it if his mind had not strayed an absurd amount of times to the thought of preferring Alfred's strong hands around his waist instead.

The host, the Duke of Rutland, had pointed Francis hurriedly to a spare bedroom, where the Frenchman finally deposited Elizabeth onto the large mattress. Any other gentleman would have moved away at that point, but Arthur noticed that Francis stayed right next to Elizabeth's flushed body, far too close for comfort.

Well, far too close for _Arthur's_ comfort; the two others involved in the situation, much to the actor's annoyance, seemed to be enjoying themselves quite a bit, just one more confidently so than the other.

Ambassador Bonnefoy leaned down. "How are you feeling, Lady Percy?" he asked, eyes wide with concern. But his voice told a different story, rumbling in a way that made Elizabeth's groin tighten and her breath hitch. She was smart enough to see the precarious situation in which they found themselves, and she knew she ought to have made a move to stop it. However, this was just far too exciting for a girl so sheltered as she.

What would be the harm?

"I..." she breathed, entranced by the movement of the Frenchman's virile lips—to where her eyes strayed now, betraying her deepest desires. Arthur was having a terrible time of it, as he tried to pull his eyes away, but all _he_ could think about, on the other hand, were Alfred's own luscious lips instead, which made Francis's pale in comparison—literally, because they were always such a tantalizingly vibrant shade of burgundy.

Arthur's thoughts swirled around Alfred, as they had been in the habit of doing for the past five days, almost non-stop. The actor had thought that if he had continued to avoid the man, those images would go away, along with the stupid feeling of attraction. He had thought that in doing so, he'd be keeping himself out of trouble.

Well, he was wrong. Arthur was in great trouble now.

* * *

"... Alfred? Alfred."

The Marquess snapped out of his stupor. He turned back to his conversation partner, who was giving him a look of mixed amusement and bemusement.

"Apologies," Alfred murmured, sending the brown haired man an emphatically sorry look.

The Earl of Westerholme laughed it off, and took a small sip of wine before replying, "No, no. It's quite all right. I just wish you had the honesty to tell me outright when my conversation bores you so."

Alfred's eyes widened. "No, you misunde—"

"I was joking, Alfred," the Earl reassured him, chuckling. "You know me well enough by now to know that, I should hope."

Alfred sheepishly ran a hand through his well-combed hair. "Usually, I should like to think that I do, Charles. My mind is just elsewhere this evening."

Charles Brentford toyed with his glass. "Well, I regret to inform you, chap, but that much is already quite obvious." He sat up and leaned in, eyes alight with curiosity. "What _isn't_, though, is why"—the Earl caught Alfred glancing once again at the door across the dance hall—"Or who. For whom are you searching?"

Alfred returned his gaze to Charles, his best friend in the aristocratic world, if he had any friends at all, and smiled ever so slightly. "I am keeping my eye out for Lady Elizabeth Percy," he replied, "if you must know." That small warm smile on his lips wasn't feigned, for the thought of Arthur tended to always make Alfred smile nowadays, even despite what happened five days ago—although, because of that regrettable event, there _was_ quite a bit of sadness and worry that he had to disguise from the Charles instead.

The Earl grinned and leaned in further. "Ah," he murmured knowingly, "is this the girl you've been so 'avidly pursuing?'" The meaning was clear: _is this your most recent soon-to-be-heartbroken gal? Shame on you for stringing her heart along.__  
_

Alfred rolled his shoulders back and gave the Earl a cool gaze. "I assure you I know nothing about that which you are speaking." A small smile betrayed his valiant attempt at innocence, however. _I know what you're implying. But it's different than you think._

Charles let out a light chuckle. "And I can assure you that after five years of friendship, you cannot pull the wool over my eyes so easily." _Oh? Then do inform me of the changes, Alfred. _Charles gazed on expectantly, waiting for Alfred to finally confess.

They stared at each other for quite a while before Alfred finally leaned back, his shoulders dropping. Charles grinned, knowing he had won.

Alfred laid his hands on the table. "My felicitations. You've discovered me," he said. "I'll admit I have shown some minor interest in her affairs."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "_Minor_ interest?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Fine. A lot of interest. But how can I resist when she is just so utterly fair?"

Charles's raised eyebrow heightened further. "You were never one to care for looks, Alfred." That wasn't true. Alfred cared; it just wasn't the_ only_ thing he cared about. Of course, Elizabeth didn't have that problem, for she—and the actor behind her—appealed to Alfred's tastes perfectly well. "What makes her different?"

The Marquess frowned disapprovingly. "It is not in good form to speak about others without their presence, Mr. Brentford."

The Earl smiled coaxingly. "I plead you to stop being so stiff, _'Mister Jones.' _It is not as if you are going to say anything negative about her, I am sure. Think of it as introducing me to her." A touch of slyness settled on Charles's cajoling smile. "And, after all, you do owe me something, I should think, for the countless times you have abandoned my company in favor of hers."

Alfred hesitated, glancing about the room. This event, though large, was being held in all of the host's manor, and the nobles in attendance were spread throughout the house. Thus, there were only about twenty people in this room, and they all seemed occupied enough in their own affairs. Maybe it would be safe to divulge something, just this once. Not to mention Charles had made a good point; Alfred had broken their conversations many times in the past to indulge in "Elizabeth's" sweet company.

The Marquess was quiet for a moment, his expression clearly torn. Finally, he sighed in resignation and shook his head. "You cunning devil," he muttered, an amused smile on his lips. "If you really must know, Lady Percy is..." Alfred picked up his wine glass and examined it, searching for the right word to encompass his "love" for Elizabeth, a person who honestly would have been as insufferable as any other lady had it not been for the actor behind her pretty face.

"She's... lovely," he finally murmured, observing the reflections bouncing off the seemingly infinite facets of glass, his mind picturing a pair of bright emerald eyes which he presently missed so much.

The Earl looked up from admiring the view outside, eyes narrowing with interest. Alfred had only ever used that tone when they spoke about one lady, and one lady only: Catherine Jones. Charles had never thought it possible that that voice could be applied to anything or anyone else, considering how fiercely Alfred always defended his mother—but only his mother.

Earl Brentford's eyebrows furrowed; he might have been treating the matter of Lady Percy too lightly this whole time.

"Go on," the Charles murmured softly, sitting up. The joke in his tone was gone.

Alfred glanced out the window at the starless night, thinking back to his experiences with Elizabeth over the past few balls. "... Her giggles light up the room... Her shy smile disguises a wild intelligence..." The words began to flow faster. "She is easily flustered, but is so captivating in those instances, and one can tell she does not realize the weight of her own beauty." Alfred smiled. "She's humble, and playful, and smart, and opinionated, and outspoken, and bold, and _fierce_, and—" Alfred paused. His heart tightened with anxiety: somewhere in there, he had begun to talk about Arthur. That was only natural, of course, for the actor's praise came so much easier to Alfred's lips than that of Elizabeth's lackluster qualities.

The Marquess glanced at Charles, whose eyes were wide open with surprise. After all, half the characteristics Alfred had just listed were not aspects of any well-groomed lady; in fact, they were quite the opposite.

Then again, they were no longer talking about a lady—well, at least one of them wasn't—and Alfred knew that was precarious ground indeed.

The Marquess tried to cover up his mistake. "And she's... great an embroidery," he added lamely, fishing for something—_anything_. But there wasn't much to distinguish Elizabeth from all the other girls, except for her remarkable beauty. She was breathtaking every which way when it came to her looks, in Alfred's opinion. In recent times, however, he had come to realize that he might have been just a little bit biased in that assessment as well.

The Earl of Westerholme stared the Marquess for quite a while in complete silence, which was no small feat on Alfred's part; Charles was rarely speechless.

Finally, the Earl leaned back and let out a light whistle. "Well, it's no surprise why you haven't fallen for anyone else, then," he commented, taking a slow, thoughtful sip of wine. "It seems you've gotten to know her in great depth. I trust you are getting along well?"

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed for a split second before smoothing back out, but that was enough for the observant Earl to notice.

"We are," the Marquess replied, hoping his smile wasn't cracking like his heart was at the reminder of problems left unresolved.

Earl Brentford looked on skeptically. The two nobles held their positions, each challenging the other, as the air between them thrummed with energy. More information passed between them through looks than any amount of words could have ever conveyed.

Charles finally broke, turning to look back out the window. "You know your problems better than I."

"Indeed, I do." _Far too well._

The Earl glanced back over, his mouth open to say something, but Alfred abruptly stood up, his concerned eyes on the door. Charles swiveled his gaze over and saw the reason for Alfred's impoliteness.

Count and Countess Edelstein had arrived—but Elizabeth Percy had not.

* * *

Alfred dashed down the hallway, his mind breezing through the instructions the Duke of Rutland had given him. He had no space of mind to pay attention to the startled faces of or disapproving exclamations from the other noblemen as he passed them right by. Alfred's mind was focused on one thing and one thing only: farthest room on the left, second hallway to the right, second floor.

Arthur.

When the Marquess rounded the final corner, he sprinted for it. No wonder the nobles had stared, for Alfred was a mess, his hair flying around, unkempt, his cravat loose and flapping as he ungracefully made his way to the door. Upon arrival, without knocking, the Marquess wrenched the handle and pushed the door open with unnecessary force.

"Arth—Elizabeth!" If he had the mind for it, he would have inwardly sworn. But in this instance, Alfred had barely even noticed his slip up, too focused on ensuring Arthur's safety. He stopped short in surprise at what he saw before him.

Francis and Elizabeth were in quite a compromising position on the bed, the Frenchman leaning over, one arm over Elizabeth's body, weight on his hand. Elizabeth was lying on her back, their faces inches from each other. One hand was daintily draped over he chest while the other was subconsciously edging downward toward a place Alfred did _not_ want it to reach. Upon realizing the sudden intrusion, the startled pair quickly pulled apart.

Alfred snapped out of his surprised stupor. "Elizabeth," he repeated, unaware of his sudden switch to a first name basis. He stepped in. "Are you hurt?" Francis snickered and swiftly stood up, moving over to the window. Alfred ignored the ambassador and made his way over to the lady, who was obviously in distress.

Arthur stared at Alfred as if he were the devil himself—and honestly, in Arthur's mind, there wasn't much of a difference at the moment. Well, except for the minor difference that the actor was also relieved—_too _relieved—that Alfred had interrupted, swooping in like an angel of justice. The Marquess had never looked more terrifying yet more beautiful before, and as Arthur's mind warred, all he could do was gawk.

Elizabeth also had her eyes glued to the Marquess's concerned expression, which cut at her and made her bleed with guilt. She had just been caught in a highly improper act, and yet, all this gentleman of a Marquess could do was worry for her when he should really have been reeling in disgust. Marquess Harrington was too kind a man, and in her present state of extreme discomfiture, Elizabeth felt that she did not deserve his care one bit.

Thus, she shook her head ever so slightly, and moved away from the Marquess's outstretched hand.

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed, sending Arthur a look of great vexation, but the actor was far too preoccupied with trying to keep Elizabeth from breaking down. There was no way he was going to cry in front of Alfred, even if it was only doing so in character.

The Marquess chose to ignore that problem for now and whirled around to face the ambassador, his expression twisted into something that made Arthur recoil in fear. It was an odd expression that he had never seen on Alfred's face before: eyebrows furrowed, eyes intense, corners of the mouth turned down. It took the actor a moment to realize that the reason it seemed so outlandish was because Alfred was _angry_—and, as everyone knew, Marquess Harrington was rarely ever angry.

"Mister Bonnefoy," the Marquess spat, glaring at the ambassador. "What have you to say for yourself?" Alfred had to actively work to keep his tongue from slipping into American in his agitation, but the protective emotions were overwhelmingly difficult to hold back.

Francis gazed at the other man with mild amusement. "I have no'sing to add to zis conversation, _Marquess_." Arthur could hear the sarcasm as clear as he could still hear Alfred's tease still ringing in his head from five days ago. Elizabeth also watched on in confusion, as it dawned on her that her two potential suitors might already know each other. After all, the world of high politics was an exclusive circle.

Alfred growled. "I wish to have no quarrel with you, Mr. Bonnefoy—"

"C'est vrai, monsieur?" The corner of Francis's lips quirked upward. "You have an interesting way of showing zat."

Alfred's expression darkened. "For once, can we ignore the niceties and—"

"You seem to be doing a fine job of zat already... Alfred_._" Blue eyes clashed with each other, one pair dangerously amused and the other mercilessly livid. Arthur had never imagined Alfred's eyes could hold that much anger, and it conflicted strongly with the actor's view of the ever-smiling, good humored man—a side which Arthur now knew he preferred very much over what he was seeing at the present moment, no matter how irritating it was to deal with daily. He made a mental note to apologize to Alfred, even if it was just to get back that smiling man to whom Arthur knew he was so attracted. Anything was better than this storm of a Marquess.

Alfred hissed. "I am not here to discuss old problems, Mr. Bonnefoy—"

"Please, call me Francis." The ambassador's eyes glinted. "You say it so well—especially when _whispered_."

Elizabeth colored, unsure as to whether or not it was just her imagination that those words had sounded so sexual. After all, Ambassador Bonnefoy's voice had a way of making everything sound vaguely lewd.

Alfred crossed to the window. "This is hardly the conversation to be having in front of the Lady," he insisted through clenched teeth.

Francis opened his mouth to make a smart remark, then glanced at Elizabeth, whose expression was twisted—daintily—into some combination of shock, confusion, guilt, and embarrassment. The Frenchman closed his mouth, thinking better of it. He still wished to court Elizabeth fully, after all. Thus, this might not be the best time to have an altercation in which things could get ugly very quickly.

"Ah, oui," Francis replied, straightening up. "Bien entendu."

The Marquess relaxed only slightly. He had no desire to let Arthur know about this relationship with the ambassador now—or ever, actually. This was a secret that he'd happily take to his grave.

Alfred nodded. "I am glad that you are capable of sense, ambassador." Alfred would have laughed at the irony of his words had he not been ready to punch a wall. His eyes narrowed. "I hope you will keep this sense with you in the future." _Touch her, and you will suffer my wrath._

Francis's look was just as cold, despite the smile on his face. "I should like to sink zat I have always kept a good 'ead on my shoulders, Marquess. After all, bartering for peace does not come easily." _I won't make it easy for you, that is._

They held each other's gaze with such an air of blatant confrontation that Elizabeth involuntarily shivered, bringing the attention of both men back to herself.

The Marquess turned and broke the stare. "I'm sure it doesn't. Now, if you will excuse me," he murmured, seeming like he very much wanted to say something else, "I should like to see that Lady Percy makes it home. Safely." _The farther she is from you, the safer.__  
_

Francis shook his head and chuckled, turning to look out the window. This game of theirs could go on forever.

Alfred looked over at Elizabeth and fought the urge to flinch at her expression. Surely that shock and fright was directed at Ambassador Bonnefoy and not at Alfred himself? The Marquess was simply trying his best to help.

"Lady Percy," he murmured, hand outreached as if trying to calm a frightened cat. "Would you allow me the honor of seeing you home?"

Elizabeth was still horrified that the Marquess had caught her in such a compromised position, and that he was still being so nice to her even after the act. It was almost too much to bear. Nevertheless, her voice caught in her throat, and the idea of home did sound very comforting at the present. She had much to think about, and much to reflect upon to change herself for the better, but that required time. And a good duvet to roll into.

Thus, she nodded wordlessly and stood up from the bed, ignoring the Marquess's offered arm. She did not deserve the love of this man—this man whom she knew she had just hurt more brutally than any pistol ever could. One could see it in his heartbreakingly readable eyes, which were devoid of their usual lighthearted sparkle. Elizabeth had caused some irrevocable damage, and now that she had the chance to clearly think on the matter, such betrayal hadn't even been for a good reason. _Of course_ Marquess Harrington was the right choice for her. All men—pardon her crude language—had penises. And some of those men could speak alluring French and make her shiver with pleasure at their every word. Some of them might even be able to defend their lurid claims with actions to suffice, but surely few men had such big hearts and such kind souls as Marquess Harrington.

How had she been so blind?

As the door closed behind them, leaving Francis alone to contemplate whatever dark thoughts swirled around his mind, Elizabeth lamented her foolishness. She had been naïve, senseless, and so utterly juvenile—but now that she had realized that, it was most probably too late. The damage had been dealt.

Alfred's expression was also somber, though his was one of more grim determination than lamentation. He didn't know what Francis had been doing in that room with Elizabeth, but he definitely would not let it continue beyond this night. This experience had raised plenty of questions and thoughts in the Marquess's mind, the foremost of which was the knowledge that he had competition. Alfred couldn't believe it. He actually had _competition_. That wasn't part of the plan. But yet, here Francis was.

And of course, it _had_ to be Francis Bonnefoy, of all people. Fate was such a sadist to Alfred in recent times; the Marquess could barely even believe his bad luck. First Arthur, now this.

And, more importantly, why did Arthur even allow himself to be put into such a compromising position in the first place? If Alfred wasn't still seething with anger at the Frenchman, or feeling wretched over his altercation with Arthur, he would have been just a tad bit annoyed at the actor's apparent carelessness.

But as it was, as Alfred glanced over to Elizabeth grimly walking beside him, and thus, by extension, Arthur by his side, all Alfred felt was was a fierce sense of protectiveness.

—Because God damn it all. Arthur was _his_.

* * *

Alfred sat in silence as the carriage rolled along, having gotten permission from the Count and Countess to take Elizabeth "home." The girl in question was currently sitting on the opposite bench, staring at her lap. It felt ridiculous to Alfred that the two of them were still acting in complete privacy, but honestly, to the both of them, it was better than having to face the _other_ glaring problem.

The Marquess stared out the window, trying to work up the nerve to apologize for what would probably be his fifteenth attempt. Yet now that the possibility of actually doing so seemed so _present_, courage almost escaped Alfred entirely.

He swallowed, knowing this was his chance. Arthur couldn't escape from a moving vehicle—and surely, he didn't hate Alfred enough to try, right?

The Marquess cleared his throat. "Arthur." His voice cracked at the end out of nervousness.

Elizabeth didn't look up, but she didn't react with surprise at the name either, which surely should have caused her confusion had Arthur been fully in his act.

After some silence, the young actor replied, in his completely male voice, "Alfred." It was almost too quiet to hear over the rumbling of the wheels.

Alfred flinched, for it had been almost a week since he had last heard his name uttered by that sweet, gentle voice—that voice that so often in the past soothed all of Alfred's worries, but now only served to make him more anxious and tense. The Marquess almost lost his determination then and there, and only the thought of once again being in Arthur's good graces kept Alfred going.

The Marquess swallowed. "I—"

"I'm sorry," Arthur murmured, keeping his eyes focused on the embroidery of Elizabeth's dress. Had he just said that so loudly? To the young actor's ears, it sounded like he had practically just screamed that aloud.

Alfred, however, had barely heard. "P-Pardon?" he stuttered, highly unusual for his calm and collected self. Then again, there was no surprise there: Arthur's presence tended to make Alfred into almost a completely different man—something which the Marquess hadn't even realized until he had had these past days to really _think_.

Arthur didn't move, though his expression twisted with what looked to be a fierce internal struggle. "I'm sorry," he said again, louder this time, but through his teeth. Apologies weren't easy, especially when he still wasn't sure whose fault this really was, even after all this time. And it would also help if the man on the receiving end of this apology didn't have to be such a buffoon about it either.

"... Why?" Alfred stared openly at Arthur, his eyebrows creased with great confusion. Of all the things he had expected, this had not made the list.

Arthur looked up, his bright green eyes glaring at Alfred with such intensity that it made the Marquess lean back a bit.

"Are you _stupid_?" the actor asked, his face flushed with annoyance—or what he hoped to be annoyance, considering how handsome Alfred still managed to look despite his disheveled state. Those broad shoulders were further accentuated, actually, by the unbuttoned jacket. Arthur could almost see the muscle underneath the dress shirt, which, due to the heat, was clinging to that carefully sculpted chest. It was a pleasure to look at, and it would surely even be a greater pleasure to—_Don't you even think about it_.

Grimacing, Arthur tried to pull his thoughts together as he continued. "I've apologized, Alfred. The least you can do is do the same," he spat.

The Marquess blinked. "O-Of course," he replied automatically, responding to Arthur's harsh tone. "I apologize."

However, once he had gotten the first word in, the rest came flooding out behind. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I really am." He looked at the actor with beseeching eyes. "Please believe me. You're right, you know"—his accent slipped more and more into American as he went on—"I _am _stupid. I didn't know I would offend you. Please. I've been thinking about this for days, and you will never know how much remorse I feel, or how much pain—"

"That's enough, Alfred." Blast. Arthur hadn't meant for his tone to sound so biting. He didn't _feel_ as sharp as he sounded. In fact, he was just as nervous about the situation as Alfred was. Something in their relationship had changed, and neither of them quite knew what it was that had evolved—or what that had evolved into, for that matter.

"I mean... Thank you," Arthur amended, looking away.

The two of them journeyed on in silence for a while more before Alfred broke the silence once again. "I really meant it, you know. I still mean it now."

Arthur looked up, and the bright green of emeralds clashed with the ashen blue of a stormy ocean. "I know," he replied quietly. _I meant what I said too_.

Arthur knew it had been his overreaction that had caused this dramatic problem in the first place, and as a well-raised child, he hadn't been above apologizing for it once he had realized his mistake. Now as to the matter of _when_... well, his mother had never taught him to apologize _immediately_._  
_

The two of them held their gazes for a bit before Alfred allowed himself a small, tentative smile. "You know, maybe you and I should switch places. You are far better at being terrifyingly commanding than I am." He even laughed a little at the end—a small, awkward sound.

Arthur had never seen the Marquess so out of his element, and it allowed the actor a small opportunity to relax. Apparently, he hadn't been the only person worked up over the matter, and that gave Arthur some comfort. It was, as a side note, also startlingly nice to see a little light back in Alfred's eyes once again. Grudgingly, Arthur knew that he had missed it, and he had felt no small amount of guilt at having caused such light to disappear in the first place.

"And don't you forget that the next time you think about being cheeky," Arthur retorted, a small smile playing at his lips as well. His heart was beating wildly with apprehension, and the laugh he uttered was just as clumsy as Alfred's had been. They were both trying very hard, but at least it seemed to be working.

Alfred laughed a little more, this being his natural laugh that Arthur had come to like so much. It was a sound the actor had missed dearly, and he hadn't even realized it. Arthur joined in with the small laugh, and soon enough, the two of them were chuckling away. They broke the laughter only to parry each other's wit with further comments and retorts.

It was ridiculous, this weeklong drama. Now that they had pushed the situation behind them, and now that things were seemingly easing back to normal—whatever that was, at this point—both actor and aristocrat could see the sheer silliness that had been their dispute. And, as people too afraid to say anything on the matter, they did what came naturally: they laughed it off and bonded over its absurdity.

As they talked, Arthur kept glancing over at Alfred, still not quite comfortable with just how much he was physically attracted to the man before him. And Alfred often glanced back, not quite able to let those emerald eyes go. They both had their reasons, but they both were too bent on the stability of this newfound peace to question the other further. And for just the same reason, Alfred did not ask about Elizabeth's feelings for Francis, and Arthur did not mention Francis's history with Alfred. This peace was nice, but it was far too fragile to support the weight of anything else other than lighthearted subjects at the present.

However, in that regard, the two of them excelled. The sound of joking and laughter didn't stop for the whole journey back, and as they grew more and more comfortable with each other—or as comfortable as two men exploring a new, terrifying relationship could get—their conversation expanded to encompass a variety of topics from politics to what happened to either of them in the past week. They were acting like old friends—which, in a way, they were. It was funny how one month's time could seem like an eternity when two people were having fun or awkwardly falling in love.

Or perhaps, in this instance—both.

* * *

**Reference: **

C'est vrai - Really? (In a sense of skepticism and disbelief)

Bien entendu - Of course/understood

*NB: I'm not a native French speaker, and neither is my father (whom I consult for French, because he is fluent by what he learned in school and from living there), so if I am wrong (in any language, actually), please, please correct me.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Hello! I have many things to say here, but the most important of them is merry Christmas! For those of you who do not observe this holiday, then just a general happy holidays to you! For this season, the most important holiday for me is actually Saturnalia. None of you probably know what that is, but I'm a Latin nerd (hell yeah, I can conjugate without thinking about it!), so Saturnalia is what I do in December (17th-23rd). For those of you who don't know, Saturnalia is probably the reason Christmas is where it is, mainly because the Christians needed a good reason to give the Romans in order to convert them, and what works better than a coincidental gift-giving holiday that falls right after the Romans' very own celebratory period? Of course, there is no hard fact to support this, but a lot of historians tend to agree with this theory, and so do I.

I'm happy that I got this in on time for Christmas, and I'm hoping that it will suffice as a good enough gift from me to all you wonderful readers out there. You all are so supportive of me, whether it's in pointing out my strengths or uncovering my flaws in order to help me get better. I don't know how to show you my appreciation enough. You all inspire me every day, and this story is constantly changing because of new ideas you give me or you cause to spring into my head. You guys are more the authors of this fic than I am! Haha.

Secondly, I am so excited! I'm a big believer in half birthdays, just because I want to celebrate as many days out of the year as possible (I'm one of those people who celebrate a holiday on every day, even if it's like, Mother's Day in Kenya, mainly because I want to spread some cheer around). And guess what? My half birthday is coming up soon! Before you know it, I'll be seventeen _and a half_. So close to legal, it's painful. xD (Although there isn't much I'd use it for except... CALIFORNIA YAOI CON NEXT YEAR! See you there, if you're going too. Really, it'd be awesomely cool to meet some of you).

Third, you'd honestly think Arthur completely changed gender based on the way Elizabeth and him interact. I still haven't figured the two of them out completely, but honestly? Elizabeth's groin can tighten at the sound of Francis's words? Is there something you're not telling us, Arthur? (Though in all seriousness, I'm sorry if the interactions between them get hazy sometimes. I know basically what you know, since Arthur only tells me the necessary information I need to write, but he doesn't talk to me about stuff beyond that. ._. (Man, I'm schizophrenic when I'm writing, aren't I?)).

Fourth, yes! They're finally getting to the falling in love part, just a little. It sort of happens faster when you're smushed together into a life where you're forced to act in love anyways. But they're both terrified of it for obvious reasons of their own, and neither will acknowledge it, no matter how painful. Plus, this is only the beginning of it, which means there's still a long way to go before they even reach any point of working material.

That being said, I'm sorry that nothing much happened in this chapter. I'm trying to wind up to bigger things, especially with Francis, as you can see, so this one is a tad bit boring. And it's like, four thousand words shorter than the previous one. Sorry! Don't hate me. Please. I swear it'll get better from here. -_-" Or at least, I'll try to make it so. Please review and let me know what you think.

Finally, I'm sorry if there are spelling mistakes. I've been writing Christmas cards to send back to the states, and you won't believe how many spelling mistakes I made in those. First of all, I spelled my name wrong. _My name_. And it wasn't once. It was a lot of times. I've been spelling it in katakana (one of the Japanese alphabets) the whole time I've been in Japan, so my English writing has just gone to the dogs. I also spelled "America" wrong (can you believe it? Alfred is shaking his head in shame), along with other _terrifyingly hard words_, like "cat," "cake," "kink," "jam," and "gag" (I write _very_ interesting Christmas cards; I'll leave it up to you to guess the rest of the content ;P).

Happy holidays and happy reading!  
Galythia

P.S. I might spend time writing one of those fic ideas you guys sent me (which you can still send if you haven't!), and if that is the case, then there won't be a new chapter up next week, but hopefully that one-shot fic will be up instead. Or maybe neither will be up, considering I need to write a few fics as Christmas presents for friends. If that's the case, I'm sorry!

P.P.S. "Okay" existed back then, though it was "o.k.," and mostly started in print before the mid-1800s came to pass. I'm taking my liberties! Sorry~

P.P.P.S. For those of you who are technologically advanced, I also started a **tumblr blog**, where you can follow my updates on what's happening with the next chapter (if I'm late, or I accidentally get into a bad accident, etc.), in addition to a bunch of other (hopefully) interesting things! The thing is that I write a lot more about my stories than I actually put down in a chapter, and oftentimes, I have nowhere to put them, so they end up known only to me. But now, I'll put them on that tumblr instead. You can also talk to me more easily on there, and, more importantly, **ask my characters questions**! More details about that over there at galythia . tumblr . com. Hope to see you around!


	9. The Point of No Return

_"It is difficult to know at what moment love begins;  
__it is less difficult to know that it has begun."_

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow -

* * *

**.: 8. The Point of No Return :.**

* * *

Arthur woke up late. It wasn't the type of late in which one chose to lounge around and waste the morning away. It wasn't the type of late that came out of an active decision to be so. And it sure wasn't the type of late that left an early riser like Arthur feeling anything but terrible that he had already wasted away a good morning.

It was none of that. Arthur physically _woke up late_—probably a side effect of finally finding peaceful resolve after a week of an overwrought existence. Of course, that didn't make it_ feel_ any better.

He cracked opened his eyes, sluggishly rolled over, and came face to face with the strangest sight: breakfast not on the table, curtains not drawn open, and a greying butler not nagging him to get up, as the man was wont to do on the rare occasions that Arthur rose late.

The only way the actor could actually tell he had missed his early rising was by the soft rays of bright sunlight filtering in through the cracks between the thick drapery. The dust motes floating in the light lent themselves well to the rest of the quiet serenity. And it was that same quiet serenity that immediately startled the actor into full consciousness.

Arthur shot up and looked about him, trying to sense if there was a fire or some other immediate disaster he needed to attend to before he died like everyone else. The actor could honestly think of no other reason in which Oswald the Strict would be missing, absent from duty without a trace.

Or was there one? Arthur's eyes landed on his vanity table, where he could barely see a corner of white paper sticking out from under a hairbrush.

The actor scrambled off the bed so fast that he pulled the majority of his blankets with him, sending himself into an odd struggling dance with his sheets in which he almost fell headfirst into an armchair. All in a productive morning's work.

Taking a moment to brush himself off upon arrival at the table (having gone through quite an adventure to get there, despite the laughably short distance), Arthur tried to preserve whatever dignity he could, despite the lack of an audience. If he was unable to act coordinated and smooth in private, then he surely couldn't carry himself well in public—and that was cause for worry indeed.

Snatching up the note—_primly_—Arthur cleared his throat as if to read it out loud like a speech. He stopped midway through the first word, realizing that such an action was ridiculous. As always, Arthur had slipped too far into his temporary act—which, he guessed, wasn't all that bad of a trait, unless, of course, we were considering the role of Elizabeth Percy. Arthur had had enough dreams of Alfred's (imagined) pectorals in the past week to last him a lifetime. (Though he couldn't say that he minded if they did actually last him a lifetime.)

The note was messily written, but Arthur appreciated that the butler had at least taken the time to find a nice, flat sheet of paper on which to write it:

_Arthur—_

_Good morning! I hope you've slept well._ (Arthur chuckled; Oswald was never one to forget pleasantries, even in a rush.)

_I've no time to explain, but breakfast is going to be served quite late. Tino doesn't have time to cook it, and I've no time to deliver._

_Do not worry, do not fret, and no matter what—please do not leave your room. And please, please, please (I cannot stress this enough), do not leave the guest house._

_Apologies,_

_Oswald_

Arthur stared blankly at the note. Well _that_ was ironic. People should have known better than to pique Arthur Kirkland's curiosity like that. It was like telling a starved man that there was a feast to be had next door, but that he couldn't attend.

Well, it would be their fault, for this starved man here had legs, and was capable of getting to that feast whether anyone liked it or not.

The young actor thrust the note back down on the table and dashed off to his closet. _"Do not leave the guest house"?_ Pah. Arthur would do one better than that. He'd visit the main manor. Whatever was happening was sure to happen there, and Arthur didn't appreciate being left out of such important matters. He—well, Elizabeth—was Alfred's fiancée, after all. And as such, he had every right to be privy to the goings on of the Jones household.

* * *

"I am pleased that you have decided to settle," a low, rumbling voice spoke. "It is about time you start making something of your life."

Alfred kept his eyes trained on his serving of eggs, as of yet untouched despite the fact that it was already half an hour into breakfast. He took a careful sip of coffee before rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck with minuscule movements.

"You did not need to come out here just to tell me that," Alfred stiffly murmured in reply, "though somehow I suspect that that isn't all you wish to say." His fingers idly fiddled at the edges of the napkin on his lap.

The greying man coughed. "Come now, Alfred. That is no way to treat a father."

At that statement, the Marquess looked up, his challenging gaze colliding with the Duke's icy blue eyes like a stormy wave crashing against a tall cliffside. Alfred smiled humorlessly, and his fingers froze mid-fidget.

"I agree wholeheartedly," the Marquess replied._ That doesn't change things, does it?_

The Duke stiffened at the implications of his son's words. Silence hung between them like a gruesome, freshly slaughtered rack of lamb—that is to say, it was weighty and unavoidable, but neither party desired to acknowledge the ideas of death and destruction that came with it.

Duke Harrington cleared his throat and wiped his mouth neatly with the corner of his napkin. "Very well," he murmured, knowing by now that it was pointless to push the matter further. Neither of them wanted this relationship status of "father and son" anyway. As long as they could act it in public with conviction, then neither really cared how it was carried out in private.

Nevertheless, as most noble families did, they at least had to maintain the semblance of attempting to fix their problems. Nothing was more pristine and perfect than an aristocratic family; all lower classes should aspire to be so grand and so faultless—or at least that's what everyone, all classes alike, was taught. No one believed it, though, peasants being too experienced and aristocrats being too knowledgeable.

The Duke took another carefully proportioned bite of eggs before continuing. "You are right, Alfred. I did not make my way to this..."—the Duke glanced about himself with disdain—"... manor just to say that." There were many unprintable words with which he wished to call this place, and Alfred acknowledged that pause to be the equivalent of such profanities. There were, after all, an equal amount of harsh words with which the Marquess wished to call the Duke himself, so Alfred considered this simply to be equivalent exchange.

Sir Edward Harrington took a sip of lemonade and spoke on, "I did not come simply to give you my felicitations regarding your change of heart to marriage." His fingers played along the rim of his carefully crafted tumbler. "I came to speak more specifically about to whom you expect me to give future felicitations." The Duke looked up, his gaze hardened. "Lady Elizabeth Percy, was it?"

That caught Alfred's attention. The Marquess sat up straight, cerulean eyes open with genuine surprise—a fatal mistake when it came to dealing with his father. Genuine emotions were nothing but exploitable weaknesses.

"I don't know what—"

"Do not lie, Alfred. I take offense that you should consider me so ignorant of my own son's affairs." The Duke eyed Alfred with a steady gaze that the Marquess was sure could cut through diamonds.

Alfred bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from arguing. The more he revealed, the weaker his position would be. He had to take his time, calm down, and regroup his thoughts—all of which were deeds much easier said than done.

The Marquess knew that it he hadn't made his affairs private, or sought to hide his courtship of Lady Percy from his father whatsoever. In fact, he often flaunted it as a mark that something was finally his, and that he had meant every word when he had spoken of plans for marriage. Despite the show, however, it still came as a hard surprise to hear his father speak so knowingly about the matter, simply because Alfred realized right then that he suddenly_ didn't_ want the Duke to know. He didn't want those devious and scheming eyes to glint as they spoke about Elizabeth—as they spoke about _Arthur._ The Devil Duke had earned his namesake in a wide variety of ways, and even Alfred was sure he didn't know the half of it.

The Marquess swallowed inaudibly, then looked his father in the eyes, hoping to whatever God existed that he seemed more confident than he felt. "You must be bored to have obviously done such extensive research," Alfred murmured nonchalantly. "Have the trade deals with the Indian companies fallen through?"

The Duke grimaced and bristled with anger. Those words had cut—but then again, that had been the goal. This was a game well practiced and well played by both father and son, an art honed over past a decade of familial warfare.

Sir Harrington cleared his throat. "They are successful as always, Alfred—none to your credit, might I add."

Alfred laughed hollowly, a dry sound that grated against his vocal cords. "You are gravely mistaken if you think I would wish it any other way." As he spoke, his mind was bustling with worry for his treasured actor. They were discussing Lady Elizabeth, of course, but Alfred wouldn't put it past his father's mind to know an inkling or two about Arthur as well. What evils was his father plotting?

"Do not assume you know anything about what I think or don't, Alfred. It makes you foolish," the Duke replied gravely, causing Alfred's eyebrows to furrow imperceptibly. Was there a hint of a warning in there? A threat of some sort?

"However," Sir Harrington continued, carefully eyeing his son, "nothing makes you look so foolish as your absurd notion of marrying Lady Percy." The words were quiet, but the weight behind them was palpable.

Alfred tried to keep his expression even as he looked out the window into the bright, open freedom that was the outdoors. If he glanced even once at his father's stern gaze, he knew he would break down. Such was the might of the Devil Duke—and so far, his son was the closest that anyone had ever come to withstanding that strength, and only then by having practiced doing so all his life.

The Marquess's lips pursed as his mind whirred. He had known that the plan's tranquility thus far could only have been temporary, though he hadn't expected his father's disapproval of Lady Percy to be the ripple in that otherwise calm pond. Of all the problems to come along—complaints and protests from his father included—this honestly had not made Alfred's list of expectations, and as such, he wasn't quite sure how to respond. But his mind thought quickly.

"I know," the Marquess replied, after considerable silence, a small smile on his lips. He couldn't help himself. "She is far too good for me." As he spoke, Alfred's mind, of course, was on Arthur, whom he had been thinking about non-stop for the past few days, for good and for bad. But mostly for good.

The Duke's eyebrows furrowed. "You_ cannot_ be serious!" The intensity of his voice caught Alfred's attention, pulling him out of his fleeting daydreams.

"Of course I am," he replied calmly, even throwing in a little confusion to spice up his words, though it wasn't half feigned. Alfred really was a little bemused. Had his father really discovered something about Elizabeth—about Arthur? Alfred had been paying close attention to the two of them (or so he thought), but perhaps he, too, had been swept up in the fun of acting, and thus had lost sight of the initial goal entirely. Alfred's mouth felt dry and papery, despite his continual sips of coffee. Of all the people in the world, why did he have to have such a perceptive father?

The Marquess cleared his throat. "Should I not be?" he asked, picking his words with care and keeping his tone even with well-practiced calmness—a talent which, ironically enough, his father had so carefully cultivated.

Like father like son. How unfortunate.

"Should you not be?" Sir Harrington cried incredulously, no longer set on keeping a calm, parental façade. "Should you_ not_ be? Alfred, Lady Percy brings in her wake the name of Mary Seymour! What sort of a farcical life are you leading?!"

Alfred knew he should have been petrified at the sudden change in tone, but all he really felt was an inward rush of relief. His shoulders relaxed, his posture lost rigidity, and his eyes softened ever so slightly. _So _that_ was the problem._ Alfred believed he could effectively face anything that came his way, so long as the character of Elizabeth Percy was still believed to be true.

Thus, it was with a more confident look and a stronger voice that the Marquess replied, "That may be so. However, are you leading me to believe that you are insulting Count and Countess Edelstein by insinuating that their care has had no effect?"

The Duke visibly stiffened. He clenched his fist and looked away. After some silence, he murmured, "Of course not, Alfred." The words were forced through clenched teeth, and Alfred could see his father's throat muscles flex. "I am merely stating that you should be careful. She appears foolish and, dare I say, _uninterested_. Have you not noticed how enamored she is with that Frenchman, Ambassador Bonnefoy, was it?"

Alfred fought with all his might to keep from wincing. While Arthur had gotten rest during the night, Alfred had been wide awake, contemplating the implications of the previous evening's scene with the Frenchman. Though he appreciated and treasured this newfound peace with the actor very much, such a sight had been quite troubling and was no small weight on the Marquess's already ailing heart. Alfred knew it had been Elizabeth's doing, for how could Arthur, so obviously loathing of love between men, put himself willingly in such a predicament? Alfred had wanted to rage in frustration all through last night, as his mind failed to piece together the puzzle that was that encounter. Just what sort of game was that damned frog _playing_?

Alfred squeezed the life out of his napkin. "I have noticed," he replied stiffly, fighting to keep his eyes clear and his tone calm. His father was just as ignorant of his history with Francis as Arthur was. "But I am ardent about winning her heart," Alfred assured.

Sir Harrington rounded on his son. "What stubbornness spurs on such _madness_? You have plenty women who are—pardon my language—practically _prostrate_ before you, begging for a chance of marriage into the Harrington name. Can you not just—"

"_That's the point!_" Alfred yelled in pure American. He slammed his fist down hard onto the table, knocking his fork off of his plate with a resounding clatter. His face was red as he glared at his father. "That is the reason I don't want them," he continued, just as forcefully, but with a bit less volume and full British once again. "Elizab—Lady Percy will love me for who _I _am, not for the name I carry!"

The Duke was taken aback at his son's sudden outburst, but he quickly recovered, his expression hardening into an inscrutable, bristling anger. When he spoke, his voice was a dark growl. "You _are_ the name you carry, Alfred Harrington."

The Marquess pursed his lips and looked away. "I believe you are currently speaking to Alfred Jones," he murmured flatly, his eyes intensely fixated on a crease in the tablecloth as he focused on calming his breathing.

The Duke's face contorted with a sudden rage. "Alfred! Your insolence will be the end of—"

Sir Harrington was interrupted by a thud outside the door. Both of them glanced over, and Alfred made a small move to stand up. There was some muffled scuffling, and then Oswald appeared in the doorway, head bowed down, bent at the waist.

"My deepest apologies, Masters." He kept his head down much longer than usual, simply because the Duke preferred things to be far more formal and structured than neither his son nor his late wife did. "I merely dropped a few books on my way to the library. Please pardon my interruption."

The Duke nodded and turned back to the table. Alfred, however, wasn't convinced. His eyes narrowed as he studied Oswald's bent frame. There had been an unmistakable flash of blond by the door as it had initially opened. Had Alfred just been overly paranoid due to his father's presence, or was Arthur meddling where he shouldn't have been? After a few seconds, the Marquess turned back to the table as well, a slightly perplexed frown still fixed on his visage. He sighed. Whatever it was, Alfred trusted Oswald to have carried out his earlier instructions well and without fail.

"Carry on, Oswald," he murmured, his eyes softening a bit, "though please make sure there are no further interruptions."

The Duke stood up. "No, that won't be necessary. I believe my business here is finished." He shot his son a dark look. "If you are so proud and stubborn, Alfred _Harrington_, then you shall stand on your own." He picked up his cane. "But before I bless your marriage with your inheritance, you must prove to me that Lady Percy is a worthy candidate." _Otherwise, you really _can _be Alfred Jones all you wish._

Alfred stood up as well. "Should you not take that problem up with the Count and Countess, instead?" he questioned, with a sharp look at his father. Personally, he rather liked his "proud and stubborn" "insolence." Anything was better than being a mirror of the Duke.

Duke Harrington turned and walked toward the door. And Alfred, being the ever gracious host, followed, resisting (with difficulty) his childish desire to toss a slice of ham at his father's broad back.

"Lady Percy needs to prove to me nothing," the Duke replied curtly. "_You_ must prove her to me. The French may be terrible at keeping everything else, including their peace, but they are known for keeping their romance under strict lock and key, Alfred."

"I understand that, _thank you_," Alfred muttered sarcastically, his heart twisting once again at the memory of Francis leaning over Elizabeth's—_Arthur's_—sweet, shivering body. Alfred wanted very much right then to make a hole in the wall with something very hard. That is, a wall being that smug Frenchman's face, and something very hard behing Alfred's own fist.

The Duke turned to face his son. The Marquess looked up, drawn upon instinct, like most people always were, to the cold eyes of Duke Harrington. The two of them made eye contact for a brief moment, and Sir Harrington assessed Alfred very deeply before speaking, in a surprisingly soft voice, "I am not sure that you do."

For a fleeting moment, the Marquess saw his father's eyes soften, and he wondered very briefly whether or not his father was actually speaking out of _worry_ for him. Did the Duke care that his son's heart might be broken by the vengeance and wrath that is French covetousness? Was his father warning against Elizabeth out of fear that Alfred may come out of this faring for the worse, whether it be out of heartbreak or the weight of a social stigma?

However, the moment was gone as fast as it had come, and the hard, disapproving expression came back in full force to the Duke's eyes. Alfred quickly forgot he had ever seen that break in character—and he attributed it to be just that: a break in character. Duke Harrington was many things, but he was not kind. Especially not to his son, who was probably more disdained by his father than an actual bastard child would be. Alfred was his own rebellious flesh and blood, born in wedlock, without even drunken, impassioned sex to blame for his mistake.

Alfred glanced away from his father's stern eyes, and the Duke's gaze lingered for only a moment more before he wordlessly turned and swept out the door.

* * *

Arthur had entered the main manor to find it deserted. Not a soul was in sight, and though it wasn't like Arthur had announced his entrance with horns and extravagant fanfare, he still had expected to be stopped. On the contrary, however, Arthur had not only managed to make it through the front door, up the main staircase (in plain view of the whole foyer from both floors), and down the left hallway, but he had also managed to latch his ears onto a trail of faint voices as they trickled down the corridor from far beyond. As he followed them, Arthur tried his best to be careful, treading lightly and breathing softly. Something important had to be happening in order to require such secrecy and fear—for why else would the staff be absent if not in hiding?

At last, he reached a set of double doors near the end of the hall. At this point, Arthur was able to hear the voices clearly enough to not only discern the words, but also to discern the people. Alfred was speaking, and he was asking, "Should I not be?" _Should he not be what?_ Arthur leaned against the door to listen, hiding his body from the rest of the hall behind a conveniently placed chest of drawers.

Then the reply came. Loudly. Arthur jumped backwards and almost knocked against the cabinet. He would have straightened himself up, had he not been frozen with fear at the sound of that booming tone. Arthur had only heard the voice a handful of times, but a person only needed to hear it once in order to recognize the commanding and lethal tone of Sir Edward Cavendish Harrington II, Duke of Devonshire.

Alfred's father. Was _here_.

As the two voices continued on, Arthur managed to pull himself out of shock and back to the door. However terrifying the Duke sounded, the actor was able to find comfort in the fact that there was still a door between him and the dark wilderness beyond. His eyebrows still furrowed with worry, however: Alfred, after all, wasn't so lucky.

As Arthur listened, his face contorted into a kaleidoscope of expressions, from annoyance to joy to fear to even a faint bit of jealousy. He took it personally that the Duke was insulting Elizabeth, for after all, she was just an extension of Arthur's skill. His method of acting might have occasionally forced a struggle between himself and his character, but in general, Arthur had thought that he had been doing quite a fine job of it. He was on top of matters, he believed. Everything was under control—that was, until Duke Harrington mentioned Francis Bonnefoy.

The young actor felt fear sweep through him. What would Alfred say? Would he be angry? Marquess Jones and Ambassador Bonnefoy obviously had some history, but what sort of history it was, Arthur had yet to find out. Thus, he was a bit relieved to hear Alfred doggedly push past the issue, but such comfort was short lived, for quickly enough, Arthur was faced with another problem: jealousy.

He caught that feeling in its infancy as it twisted around his heart, its thorny vines pricking into his soul, injecting it with some burning passion Arthur did not understand. He tried to fight it back, for it honestly made no sense as an emotion. Arthur wasn't—_was not_—jealous of a fictional character, least of all for the affections of another man, and an annoyingly facetious one at that. Physical attraction he might have been able to cope with, but this newfound jealousy was a beast unto its own—not to mention that his recent struggle was still far too fresh a wound for some new sickness like this to suddenly come and infect his heart.

Arthur needed no more maladies.

Thus, with every ounce of denial, every gram of perseverance, the actor squeezed that emotion away. He not only swept it under the rug, so to speak, but he also put said rug in a padlocked parcel and sent it to the recently founded South River Colony, far away, across countless miles of land and sea. Arthur was never good at lying to himself, but he was quite skilled at procrastination—for that was exactly what it was. Procrastination. That feeling would come back to haunt him soon enough, and he'd have to think upon it further then, but for now, he could get back to living life and pretending like it was a normal life to be living.

Arthur only managed to hear a few more words before Oswald hissed at him from down the hall. The actor jumped once again, this time, however, actually knocking down the vase from the small cabinet. Oswald rushed forward, and Arthur dove to the ground, barely catching enough of it with his hand to prevent shattering. As the priceless vase slowly rolled off under the drawers, Arthur and Oswald stared at each other, both frozen with fear and surprise. It took them a moment to recover, and when they did, Oswald immediately made for the door to apologize and abate any suspicion. Arthur took that as a cue to retrieve the vase himself, and he barely made it out of the doorway in time before Oswald opened it and stepped inside.

The young actor waited for his breathing to slow as he reorganized the crumpled flowers. He murmured prayers softly under his breath, in the hopes that God would hear just this once and keep his presence undiscovered by both Duke and Marquess. However, as Fate might have it, God ignored him once again, as He was wont to do in recent times, what with ignoring Arthur's wishes to see Alfred as ugly, terrible scum, for example, rather than the breathtakingly handsome man that he actually was.

The actor heard the unmistakable scraping of chairs against the floor, and his hands froze. There was no time to run, and, for that matter, nowhere to hide. Arthur was forced to remain, and much like a child about to be scolded, the actor was rooted to his position with terror and apprehension.

Oswald stepped out of the entryway and held the mahogany door open for the Duke. The butler shot Arthur a pressing look, but all the actor could do was shake his head minutely in reply. There was nothing he could do. At least dressed in his plain clothes, Arthur could run the hope of being taken for a servant. It would have been a right mess if Duke Harrington had found Lady Percy waiting outside the door instead.

When Sir Edward Harrington stepped out, all parties except himself stiffened. Despite his most desperate desires not to do so, Arthur made immediate eye contact with Alfred, whose azure eyes widened ever so slightly with surprise. So it _hadn't_ been paranoia after all, when Alfred had seen that ghost of blond hair. The Marquess quickly diverted his attention to Oswald, to whom he gave an annoyed and scolding look. He thought he had stressed enough the importance of Arthur remaining in his room. And apparently, he did, considering how Oswald was pointedly looking ahead down the hallway. That classic stiff upper lip.

The Duke noticed the change in dynamics, and he paused at the door to assess the atmosphere. Alfred stood stock still as well, half of his brain calmly gauging the situation, while the other half wanted to push his way past to stand between his father and Arthur. The Marquess was quite sure that no consequence would come of Duke meeting actor, but then again, Sir Harrington was more perceptive than a bloodhound. Once he caught onto a scent, he would never let go until someone went down. And after forty-five or so years, here the Duke was.

Still standing.

"Oswald, prepare the carriage," the Duke ordered dismissively, turning his attention to the frozen actor, who quickly pulled his hands away from the flowers and stuffed them in his pockets. Alfred hoped he had imagined the slight linger of his father's gaze as it examined the actor's hunched figure. The same went for when the Duke's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as he caught sight of Arthur's emerald eyes moments before the actor remembered to avert his face. After a tense moment, the Duke's gaze moved onward, past Arthur and down the hall.

"You, boy," he commanded, "fetch my jacket."

Alfred instinctively opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur cut him off with a sharp glance before bowing deeply to the Duke. "Yes, sir," the actor murmured stiffly before spinning around and hurrying after Oswald. Arthur had no idea where the coat closet was, but the faster he caught up to the butler, the faster he could find out—and be out of the reach of that terrifying man. It had been a grave mistake to not heed Oswald's note, and now Arthur bit his lip with worry, in hope that the Duke would leave quickly, and that Alfred wouldn't be too cross with him afterward. Part of him wanted to say that it was Oswald's and Alfred's faults for leaving such an obvious trail for Arthur's undying curiosity. But Arthur also knew that his curiosity would have found a way no matter what the two of them did to prevent it.

The whole way to the coat closet, Arthur scolded himself harshly. He lamented his questioning mind, for he knew by now that he really had come to treasure Alfred's friendship, as unexpected and odd as that development had been and still was. And just when they had worked out a delicate peace, Arthur had let his stupid curiosity run the possibility of ruining it once again.

* * *

The Duke walked up to his carriage. It was of spartan design, all black with no ornament or filigree. The inside was much of the same, with dark drapery, black cushions, and no touch of embroidery whatsoever. The only vaguely lavish touch were the letters "E. C. H." etched into the side, painted over in silver. Alfred had always thought the carriage fitting: an reserved but commanding outside, with a dark, claustrophobic inside—just like the Duke and his own wicked heart.

Arthur held the door open for the Duke, ordered to do so by Oswald, who was pushed to assist Arthur in keeping with his servant role. It felt odd to suddenly be a "commoner" again, doing chores, fetching items, and being ordered around—which, in and of itself, felt odd. It was weird that this felt weird. Arthur was loath to admit it, but he was starting to enjoy high society a little bit—and that was positively terrifying. He wasn't sure how many more balls and parties he could take before the allure of gold finally overwhelmed a heart even as pure as his—or perhaps it wasn't the riches, but the _magic_ of it that did the trick. Arthur loved to spin and tell fairytales, and on certain days, in good ways and bad, he almost felt like he was living one of his own. That was the true attraction. Come to think of it, he even had his own charming prince to complete the picture (a thought which made his cheeks color darkly and caused Alfred to shoot him a brief, quizzical glance).

Before stepping into the carriage, Duke Harrington turned back to face his son. He tapped his cane on the ground thoughtfully. "As I said, Alfred, you are on your own if you choose not to listen. However, remember this: the French do many things poorly, but they practice love like a high art form." Father and son made direct eye contact, and the air thrummed with energy. Arthur shuddered despite the lack of a summer breeze.

The Duke sighed and broke eye contact, turning back to his carriage door.

"It takes a man of true mettle to steal love from a Frenchman, Alfred."

* * *

Alfred closed the door behind him, his expression carefully stoic. Arthur played with his cuff, which was still wet with water spilled from the flower vase. The two of them stood in silence for at least half an eternity before Alfred finally moved over to the drink cabinet in the drawing room.

"Scotch?"

Arthur glanced over, unable to help himself. He shook his head gently before realizing that Alfred could not see him from that angle. "No," the actor croaked out, wondering what emotion he was feeling at the moment: frustration, anger, annoyance, sadness, or guilt. Surely it was better to pick one, rather than feel like a tangled mess of multicolored yarn. It was far too early in the day for this.

Alfred nodded, but poured two glasses anyway. Setting one on the table beside Arthur, the Marquess loosened his tie and practically melted into the armchair. It was barely noon, but the day already felt like it should have been over with long ago. Closing his eyes, Alfred took a careful sip of his drink before setting into the inevitable.

"What did you think you were doing?" He kept his tone light and neutral, and it was impossible for Arthur to tell what Alfred thought about the matter.

Arthur, still perplexed as to what his emotional reaction to the situation was, took a moment before he replied, "I was listening in."

The Marquess opened his eyes once again, solely for the purpose of rolling his eyeballs in exasperation. "That much is obvious, Arthur." He didn't even bother to keep the American out of his voice, letting it seep back in at its own natural pace. And Arthur was far too used to it by now to even notice or question the change. Alfred growled in frustration. "_Why _were you there? You should have been—"

"I had a right to know!" Arthur blurted out. His heart had finally decided on an emotion, and it settled on irritation. "You had no place hiding that from me!" He whirled on Alfred, part of his mind sure that it was unfair of Alfred to have expected Arthur to stay out of the proceedings. Another part of his mind tried to pause and wonder as to whether or not that actually _was_ unfair, but it was dragged along too quickly by the rest of Arthur's thoughts to properly decide.

Alfred looked startled, clearly not having expected such an outburst. He stared at Arthur for a while before settling his glass down on the table beside his chair. "Tell me, Arthur, what part do you have in my business?" His tone was calm and quiet, but his eyes tightened at the edges as he examined the annoyed figure before him.

"I have every part to do with it," Arthur shot back darkly. "After all, I _am_ your fianc—"

"No, _Elizabeth_ is. And actually, not even that. Yet."

"But Alfred! I—"Arthur faltered. It took a moment for his impassioned feelings to catch up to his mind, but once it had arrived, Arthur realized that his heart had been wrong. He was unjustified in his lividity. It was a moment of blindness, borne out of confusion and the need to decide on _something_, rather than just fiddle around with a pot of gooey, bubbling emotions. Anger was often the best defense mechanism, simply because it was not defense at all. But an offensive play was often reckless and idiotic, and neither trait helped Arthur's cause at the moment.

"I..." He traced the contours of his glass as he actively avoided Alfred's patient but curious gaze. It dawned on Arthur that Alfred was completely right. _Elizabeth_ was the romantic figure. Arthur had no part in her life, and surely, he had no part in Alfred's as well. But weren't they friends? Had that carriage ride yesterday not changed something, something for the better? The young actor never thought that there would be a moment in his life in which he would yearn for friendship with an aristocrat, but yet, here he was. Ready to make amends.

"I... I'm your friend?" _More conviction_. "I am your friend." He crossed his arms, ignoring the surprised expression that flittered across Alfred's face. "And as such, I deserve the right not to be kept in the dark, especially when I have yet to even eat all day because of your idiotic tomfoolery." There. Insults should have hid the blazing red across Arthur's cheeks well enough. He wasn't used to this—but then again, neither was Alfred.

The Marquess was at quite a loss for words at the sudden turn in mood, and it took a moment before he remembered to shut his gaping mouth. Were they friends again? Was this even an "again"? Alfred opened his mouth to ask, but closed it just as quickly. If things were working, why question the reasoning behind it? One does not examine a clock's gears if it functions well enough, and just the same, one does not pry into a relationship when all seemed to be going well.

Thus, after a moment, Alfred nodded. "Yes... Yes, we're friends." He sighed. "I'm sorry I kept it from you." Alfred's gaze hardened ever so slightly as he remembered the reason behind his orders to Oswald in the first place: protectiveness. There was just something about those green eyes, that alabaster skin, that vaguely refined yet wild accent, that wit, the bitter, sarcastic remarks, that interest in books—oh, the list could go on and on. Alfred had so much he liked about Arthur, so much he treasured. It was almost two months into their partnership, though it felt like much longer, and Alfred found that he constantly wished for more. He wanted this relationship (and its newfound peace) to last. The Marquess didn't need friends, but he needed Arthur.

And yes, Alfred wanted Arthur. He wanted Arthur in a way that he feared involved more than just friendship—and that petrified him. Thus, he actively ignored such emotions, and wrote off his protectiveness as merely looking out for the interests of a friend instead. A very, very good friend.

"Are you all right?" Alfred asked, glancing Arthur over. The actor looked paler than usual, but perhaps that was just the bright May sunlight filtering in through the window, so harsh against Arthur's fair complexion that it made the man look almost... translucent. Like an angel...

Alfred was shaken out of his reverie by Arthur's low and bitter reply. "As much as anyone is, after an encounter with your father."

"... Well, I'm glad," the Marquess replied solemnly, looking for something to fill that empty space between them. Didn't they remedy that already? How was it possible for a relationship to go from freezing tundra to tropical climates and back with as much erratic randomness as the shaking of an earthquake? Much like Arthur, Alfred, too, found himself pondering whether or not that carriage ride the night before had really changed anything—and if so, what was it and how?

Silence weighed down on them, the heat closing in more oppressively than usual. Alfred loosened his tie further, the scratch of friction between cloth and fingernail being the only sound to permeate the room. And it echoed like some grenade blast in the awkward, stale stillness. Alfred kept his gaze trained on Arthur, and he found himself wishing that Arthur would simply return the favor. The Marquess wanted the pleasure of beholding those emeralds once again, and really, was the ground that interesting? Floral patterns on oriental rugs could be found nearly everywhere. Did Alfred now have to compete with inanimate objects as well for Arthur's ever wandering gaze?

—Speaking of which. "Arthur..." The Marquess bit his lip, wondering whether or not it was a good idea to bring Francis into the conversation. This friendship was in its infancy, and as any child, too many complications could traumatize it for good. But Duke Harrington had caused quite a few of Alfred's fears to resurface from his restless contemplation last night, and if Arthur and he were to be friends, then Alfred wanted them to be good friends. And that meant less secrets—if not maybe even truth. For in the world of the nobility, those were two vastly different things.

"Arthur, what happened with Fran—Mr. Bonnefoy last night?"

The actor, who had been idly running a finger along the rim of his short tumbler of scotch, stiffened. Instinctively, he glanced up, bringing his eyes directly to meet Alfred's own. They stared at each other long and hard before Arthur finally looked away and swallowed nervously.

"Nothing of consequence," he replied, picking up the glass. It probably wasn't healthy to drink such strong spirits on an empty stomach, but to be honest, Arthur could do with a little less clarity and a little more fog in his mind at the moment. Thus, he took a nice sip, and he felt the amber liquid singe the skin of his throat. The actor fought hard not to wince as he struggled with the heat sliding down his esophagus. It burned, but it felt so thoroughly releasing that it was quite worth the pain.

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Really. Last I checked, Elizabeth was just about to have a nice, _labial_ moment with a Frenchman—who _isn't_, might I remind you, her intended fiancé." The Marquess cringed ever so slightly. He hadn't meant to sound that biting. Alfred was just worried, and he was still on edge from his belligerent breakfast, ready to defend and argue at any cue, even when there was no cause to do so.

His tone, however, earned a withering look from Arthur, who took another swig of scotch before replying. "I am smart enough to remember the plan, Alfred."

The Marquess scoffed. "Then please remember that it doesn't involve getting into bed with Mister Bonnefoy!" Alfred snapped, instantly regretting his words. Again, his resentment toward the Frenchman had gotten the better of him, and Alfred tried to look apologetic the moment those words had escaped his lips, but Arthur was already mid-way through his reply.

"_Getting into bed?_ Are you _mad?!_ Alfred, I am trying my best to do my duty, and I am _Anglican_ for God's sake! Elizabeth was just— it was— I was cornered into the situation! I had no viable way out!" Arthur was fuming again, and the last of his scotch came all too quickly. The actor crossed over to the cabinet and helped himself to another glass—a full one this time. "Do not think for one moment that I have forgotten that this is my _job_, Alfred!"

The Marquess froze, and so did Arthur, for that matter. Even though he had just said it, the truth of the matter was that Arthur _had_ forgotten. Both of them had. Somewhere along in the past two months, this had evolved from a jest, into a game, into a plan, and now, into a... lifestyle? It was beyond a monetary incentive at this point (though in all honesty, Arthur had always felt the impetus of the possibility of execution looming over his shoulders as well). This charade was now above what either had anticipated it would be from the outset, and now neither quite knew how to describe it. This act was an all-consuming pantomime, and for the past two months, neither had really thought about anything else. Was it really just a job anymore?

Alfred glanced down at his lap, his own drink forgotten. Feelings of resentment, anger, and hatred coursed through him, but none of them directed at Arthur. The Marquess closed his eyes and willed for some mature logic to guide his soul to a less childish location. Yelling at Arthur for no reasonable cause would lead them nowhere but down a path they would later regret. This irritation needed to fade, along with the sudden feeling of heartache that gripped Alfred as well. The reminder that this whole scheme was, after all, a business transaction weighed heavily upon the man's heart. Once this was over, it would be just that. Over.

Well, Alfred could at least make the best of it while he could.

"... I don't want to fight you today, Arthur," Alfred murmured with a sigh, his accent almost completely American. He ran a hand slowly through his hair, which captured the actor's attention, despite himself. Alfred was irritatingly irresistible to look at.

Arthur's eyebrows furrowed slightly, his expression moving from frustration to confusion. He had expected Alfred to fight. Of course, Arthur hid his facial cues well, and only Alfred could tell the differences, mainly because he had spent many hours staring at that pristinely structured face, much like Arthur had often done in reverse.

"As... as a friend," Alfred continued, trying to explain some sense for himself and for Arthur alike, "I just want you to be safe." He gritted his teeth, as he realized that he would do whatever it took to make that safety a reality. Not much else was worth such dedication, but somewhere along the lines, Arthur had wormed his way into a small niche in Alfred's heart. It was actually a nice thought, and it warmed Alfred to think about. He had something to protect. That was new._  
_

The actor glanced over at his aristocratic friend, and the image of Alfred's shy smile beaming back at him made whatever frustration Arthur felt ebb away. They really were fools, weren't they? They were after the same goal, yet unable to work together due to a few minor differences in words. Pah. Semantics.

Arthur smiled weakly in return. He couldn't help himself. "I don't want to quarrel either," he admitted, glad that this situation seemed more normal than he thought it would be. "And of course, I want myself to be safe even more than you do."

_Oh I doubt that_, Alfred thought, surprising himself a little when he realized it was actually true. He really did care _a lot_—more than he ought to, and definitely more than was safe for either party involved.

"But won't you explain to me last night?" Alfred asked, shifting in his seat. Oddly enough, that question caused both of their minds flashed immediately to the carriage ride, rather than to the incident with Francis. Despite recent events, they both still thought most about each other, and those thoughts were horrific, dreadful, appalling, terrible—and so utterly wonderful that it bordered a bit on an opium high.

"With Francis," Alfred quickly remedied, blushing a bit too much himself to realize that Arthur was doing the same—or that he had accidentally let slip the man's first name. Such familiarity was sure to arouse even further suspicion than the short spat the two had had last night, which Alfred desperately hoped Arthur had conveniently turned deaf for.

Luckily for Alfred, the actor was far too entranced in the memory of Alfred's charming laughter from last night's carriage ride to register that anything was even amiss. He simply glanced back at his scotch, a full glass which he now considered abandoning, and frowned ever so slightly.

"There is nothing to explain," the actor replied carefully. "I had the situation under my control." Arthur knew he was trying to convince himself of the matter as much as he was trying to convince Alfred. "However, your assistance—though _unnecessary_—is appreciated," the actor added as an afterthought, hoping to stick to their unspoken resolution to try not to fight.

Alfred wasn't convinced. He let his eyes trail over Arthur's expression for a bit (ignoring his mind's useless comments about the actor's warm complexion or smooth looking cheeks—cheeks which became more scarlet the longer Alfred stared). Finally, the Marquess looked away, averting his gaze back to his lap.

"If you say so."

The two of them were once again doused in silence. This seemed to be happening often, as of late. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by his growling stomach, which grumbled for attention. The sound echoed in the quiet sitting room for a fragile moment before the two men burst out laughing simultaneously, far more entertained than they ought to have been. As the air escaped their lungs in bouts of laughter, so did the tension escape the room. The atmosphere lightened considerably, and it was only a matter of time before Alfred was practically doubled over as he clutched his stomach in laughter, and Arthur was bent at the waist, hands on his knees, fighting hard for adequate breath.

It took at least five minutes to recover, and when they did, they both smiled at one another. Full, friendly smiles. It was the type of a smile shared between people who also shared secrets, like the understanding of some private joke. It felt homey, warm, and, most importantly, not unnatural whatsoever. Something had clicked yet again.

The Marquess stood up with slow movements that bespoke of considerable effort (and laziness, Arthur might add). Running a slow hand through his hair, Alfred grinned sheepishly. "I apologize once again for keeping you from your daily vittles. Please, allow me to remedy that now."

Arthur nodded and stepped over in Alfred's direction. With an attempt at feigned annoyance, the actor upturned his nose and scoffed, "It better be worth my while, Marquess Jones. You have been a poor host as of late."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Only a harsh criticism on your very being," Arthur replied with a roguish smirk. "Take _that_ as you will." They made their way to the door, scotch glasses completely forgotten. One of the maids could take care of that later.

The Marquess laughed, enjoying this cheeky Arthur, whom he had missed so much in the recent week. And as they walked down the hall, they exchanged light banter once again. And it was a relief to both men that this act seemed natural, and that there was no tension, anxiety, or worries, especially from the previous week. Food tended to bring people together. The Romans could tell you why "companion" was the word it was: eating bread together.

As they made their way to the dining room, an idea began to form in Alfred's mind. Due to the nature of this connubial contrivance, as he had taken to calling this little crazy plan he had with Arthur, Alfred had never needed to actively court Elizabeth like he would a regular lady. Everything they did was for show.

However, the Marquess was fast coming to realize that Elizabeth was a creature unto herself, and she needed to be won much like anyone else—however odd that idea was to a non-professional actor like him. Was it Arthur's heart that needed to be swayed, or was it Elizabeth's? Was the actor's religious and personal standards getting in the way of his performance, or was Elizabeth simply that believable?

Alfred glanced at his blond friend, and he sighed, for he saw no means of answering these questions that plagued his every thought. But he knew for sure that no matter the reason, he had to begin thinking of Elizabeth Percy as a real lady. He would court Lady Percy with all of his talent and skill, and Alfred was sure he had the "mettle" to turn her away from Francis and right into his own arms.

And then Arthur would finally be safe. And Alfred's.

* * *

Alfred wasted no time in implementing his plan. The day after the morning his father had come to visit, Elizabeth was once again due for a ball, and Alfred was on the list of attendees as well. Luckily, Francis was absent from the event, and that gave Alfred some space to act and establish his position before the frog would make his unsightly appearance once again.

The moment Elizabeth arrived at the hall, Alfred swept into action. He dislodged himself from conversation with Charles after a quick apology and a promise to make up for lost time with a fencing bout at a later date. Then he crossed the hall, and before Lady Percy could even speak a standard greeting, Alfred intervened, wishing her a good evening, and then making good on that wish by asking her to spend it with him. The Count and Countess played their part well, acting appalled at Alfred's wish to monopolize their precious girl, and Arthur was _actually_ appalled, noticing very much the sudden change in Alfred's laid back demeanor. The man was no longer just offhandedly cool and collected. He was practically flaunting his looks, focused on pushing his charm and intent on winning Elizabeth.

That, however, was completely unnecessary. If the girl hadn't already been head over heels for the Marquess, she sure was now. Elizabeth had been worrying over that last incident, wondering just how she would go about acting in the man's presence once again, but Marquess Harrington made it easy. He simply acted like nothing had occurred. And even when Elizabeth had brought it up, in an effort to apologize, the Marquess had dismissed the subject entirely and deemed that it had just been merely his duty as a gentleman to relieve her from such vile advances—which, of course, won him more affection in her already swaying heart.

Of course, Lady Percy was still anxious over the knowledge that those advances, however vile, hadn't exactly been unwanted. Now that she had had a few days to think, and could approach the subject with a clearer mind, she was able to see her naiveté for what it was. It had been a moment of weakness, and she fretted over it incessantly. The man sitting before her, laughing brightly and smiling with his perfect rows of teeth, was made of perfection. He had the classic qualities of good looks and good fortune, but he was also kind beyond compare, and very much a gentleman. He was sheer godliness, embodied in a mortal. How could Elizabeth have been so blind to think otherwise?

Arthur, too, was quite enthralled by the change. He had never seen Alfred act so... _open_. That wasn't quite the right word for it, but there was no describing the difference that had overcome Alfred since the last time they had properly spoke as Lady Percy and Marquess Jones—which was actually more than a week ago. The man seemed far more relaxed, yet also more focused. His eyes were alight with a fire that both Arthur and Elizabeth did not understand—but they both liked nevertheless. It lent Alfred an air of allure and mystery, and Arthur caught himself leaning in and staring countless times during the night, which he _very_ quickly dismissed as being Elizabeth's actions instead.

But the problem with being an actor was that the lines between one's role and oneself were often quite blurry. Arthur struggled to identify where his thoughts ended and where Elizabeth's began, though he desperately wished to know, for some of those thoughts were highly disturbing to his mind, both for personal and for Anglican reasons. However, in lieu of a sure method for finding out, Arthur settled for the next best course of action: passivity. Sheer passivity. If he couldn't find an answer, then he would simply stop trying, for that grey area worked both ways. Arthur was not good at lying to himself, but he was quite skilled at half-truths, omissions, and evasions. And as long as he didn't know who it was that felt irresistibly drawn to that shining personality, in a way that moved far beyond the realm of just the physical, then Arthur could quite convincingly tell himself that it was _most likely_ Elizabeth. That was the only way that made sense, after all.

As the evening wore on, Elizabeth found herself dancing with the Marquess far more often than usual, and he was being more adventurous with his waltz steps as well. It almost seemed like he was attempting to show off—which was ludicrous, considering how impeccable he already was. More than once, Elizabeth had to fight the urge to simply lean in and kiss the man, especially when they had made their way outside to the balcony, which allowed them some much coveted privacy. And it was then that Marquess Harrington simply melted Elizabeth's heart by finally asking permission to call her by her first name.

Of course she said yes. She would have said yes to _anything_, if that voice was doing the asking. And she found herself yearning very much to say yes to so many more things, to a glass of champagne, to another dance, to a walk in the gardens—to being his wife. And with that thought, she was far overthinking her bounds. And Arthur, just as appalled as she, struggled to pull her thoughts back.

What sort of magic was Alfred working, if he could make a woman jump from permission for a first name basis to ideas for their wedding location? Arthur found himself wishing that the Marquess didn't have this effect on every poor girl he met—something which the actor wrote off as concern for Elizabeth's feelings rather than jealousy from his own repertoire of emotions (although he did feel an irrational amount of smugness at having gained permission to call Alfred by first name long before Elizabeth had done the same; it was a stupid competition against, well, _himself_, but at least he had won).

Alfred was glad of his apparently positive effect. He felt that the night was going smoothly, and well according to plan. It was hard work, courting a woman ardently, especially one so... mundane and simpleminded as Elizabeth. Alfred not only liked men, but he felt he probably had a minor dislike for women as well, or at least women who looked at him as if he were some piece of meat for the taking. For one who disliked the rites and rituals of courtship so much, Alfred found this new effort in capturing Elizabeth's heart to be utterly unbearable, and the easy way with which Elizabeth seemed to play right into his plan made him scorn her all the more.

Nevertheless, the repeated mantra of Arthur's name in his head was like a war cry, readying Alfred for the battle against his own dislike for formal love. And the thought of Arthur safe from Francis's creepy _tentacles_ was more than enough to spur Alfred onward, as he gritted his teeth in a charming smile for Elizabeth, hoping that some of its intended warmth would reach the actor underneath all that makeup instead.

When the night was up, Alfred (for she could call him that now) escorted Elizabeth back to the Count and Countess, who were awaiting her, eager for some news or development. Alfred acted as elegant as always, making polite conversation with Count Edelstein as the Countess gave Elizabeth curious, motherly glances. This evening had been the longest that Elizabeth had ever spent in the presence of Marquess Harrington, and clearly, it had been a good evening indeed, considering the shine radiating from both Lady and Marquess. Everything was finally working well, at last.

—That was, until Francis Bonnefoy reentered the picture the following night. That was where the real game began.

* * *

"Ah, Mister Bonnefoy! Goot eef'ning," Count Edelstein cried, extending a hand in greeting. Beside him, Elizabeth, who had been looking in another direction, stiffened. It took her a moment to calm her breath before she turned to face the ambassador, who, thankfully, was still preoccupied with greeting the Count. Standing in the open-air courtyard, Elizabeth could use the fresh air to help calm her palpitating heart. But despite her efforts, Lady Percy felt that it was all too short a time before those sea-blue eyes turned their attention away from her guardians and right toward her. Arthur was practically hyperventilating on the inside.

"Bonsoir, madame," the ambassador spoke, bowing deeply, almost to Elizabeth's feet. It was a sign of respect, for sure, and Lady Percy had a feeling it had to do with the proceedings a few nights ago.

"Good evening, monsieur Bonnefoy," she replied, curtsying. She kept her mouth shut and her eyes averted as pleasantries were exchanged between ambassador, Count, and Countess. She could feel Mr. Bonnefoy occasionally glance in her direction, and that same conflicting desire to run far away or right into his arms was back once again. She had been positive that things had changed, especially after an amazing previous night with the Marquess—with _Alfred_. That was such a pleasant, unique name for a nobleman. And the way he said it when he had allowed her to call him that made her swoon, even as she was just remembering it then. So why did Ambassador Bonnefoy still have his same effect on her body? Hadn't that incident been warning enough?

"Lady Percy, would you please allow me ze pleasure of beholding your gaze?"

Elizabeth glanced up, startled out of her thoughts. Somewhere, somehow, her guardians had disappeared, leaving the ambassador standing before her. Alone. Her palms began to sweat, especially as the man's lips quirked into a half smile at her timid reaction.

"I... I..." Elizabeth didn't know where to start. Was she the one at fault for that incident? Was the apology hers to make, or was that the ambassador's job? For what reason would they even be apologizing? After all, nothing had actually _happened._ Or had it? Did that near miss count for something? He head was near explosion with a flurry of conflicting and confusing thoughts.

Thankfully, Francis saved her the trouble. "You look breathtaking tonight, mademoiselle." His eyes twinkled. "The moon does wonders for your complexion."

Elizabeth backed up a single step involuntarily, feeling her leg hit one of the chairs in the courtyard. She fell into the seat, her eyes still fixated on the ambassador's own. Mister Bonnefoy's eyes were a shade of blue so very different from Alfred's. They both had light colored eyes, but whereas Alfred's were a warm shade of sky blue, like that of a sunny day, the ambassador's were the the pale blue of... silken bedsheets. If soft whispers or the ever seductive breeze of winter could have a color, they would be the same as that of Francis Bonnefoy's eyes.

"Th-Thank you," Elizabeth murmured, utterly enthralled by the man before her, for good and for bad. Arthur willed himself to look away, but it seemed like Francis, too, had changed his demeanor since their last meeting. He was more like a predator, carnivorous and on the scent of a young gazelle he wished to _ravish_. And Arthur was utterly transfixed.

The Frenchman smiled and took a seat beside Lady Percy, breaking their eye contact. Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief, which was loud enough to even be considered offensive. Francis, however, simply chuckled at the reaction, and leaned back in his chair, causing their shoulders to casually brush. Elizabeth froze, her breathing coming in very shallow gulps.

Francis turned his gaze toward the night sky as he murmured, "I must say, I cannot believe my fantastic luck tonight. I was sure zat monsieur 'arrington would have engaged you in conversation by now."

Elizabeth colored, her mind immediately shifting to the memory of last night—that magical last night that made her feel like royalty, a princess courted by some dashing prince from a faraway kingdom. In actuality, Alfred was handsome _and_ rich enough to probably pass as a member of the royal family if he so desired. Surely, such a man was more than good enough, so why was Elizabeth still here, in the company of a Frenchman who was succeeding in making her so hot and bothered, despite her better judgment?

"A-Alfred is running late, I-I've heard. He h-has a sudden e-emergency," she stammered out, eyes fixed on her trembling fingers. This was the news that she had heard from the Count, at least.

"'Alfred'?" Francis's eyes narrowed, and his mouth pursed to a thin line. Apparently, the young Marquess was getting serious. Francis had not expected for those alleged claims of marriage plans to actually be sincere, but now, he was forced to reconsider. It was time for a change of plans.

Turning to Lady Percy, Francis smiled sweetly. "Then I insist you call me Francis as well, madame."

"F-Francis?" Elizabeth whipped her eyes around too look directly at the ambassador, a grand mistake, if there ever was one. She was immediately lost once again, enthralled by that penetrating gaze. "P-Please call me Elizabeth, th-then." Arthur wanted to scream, rage, kick the Frenchman in the shins—but he couldn't. All he could do was feel Elizabeth's fear, apprehension, and absurd arousal coursing through him.

It was _sickening._

With a satisfied smile, the ambassador murmured that he was delighted to have that honor, and that he would treat her name with utmost care. The conversation then deviated from that point onto lighter subjects, as Francis tried to ease Elizabeth back into comfort in his presence. That incident in the bedroom had been a mistake, Francis knew, but he simply hadn't been able to resist such a clear opportunity. This woman was beautiful, and he was in need of a wife soon enough. Being a bachelor was very much frowned upon past a certain age, and that magical number was fast approaching for Francis.

Mister Bonnefoy spoke gently about a variety of easy subjects as he tried to calm Elizabeth's mind. The ambassador, however, did not apologize for his actions a few nights ago. He, like Alfred, ignored the subject, and he acted as if nothing had occurred that would be considered remotely out of the ordinary. And thus, Elizabeth did the same.

Lady Percy was tentative at first, highly wary of the Frenchman (a small victory on Arthur's part, at last). However, Duke Harrington's words were indeed quite true, and the Frenchman had love and romance down to a fine art. Within barely fifteen minutes, Francis had Elizabeth giggling once again. The poor girl was blushing furiously, for the ambassador somehow managed to make even the slightest description of something so mundane as mulch feel startlingly sexual. Elizabeth didn't blame the man for it, though, but rather chided her own perverted mind for taking his words down such lewd paths.

Arthur was becoming more nauseated as the conversation wore on. He could not take another moment of these boring subjects, or of the whirlwind of female emotions that were coursing through him. Honestly, was he swooning? Over a frog? Arthur bit back a groan, and he was beyond the point of even trying to deny that he missed Alfred's deep, gentle voice in exchange for this insufferable nasal droning.

It seemed like years had passed before Arthur sat up, startled as he caught the faint flash of matted blond on the other side of the courtyard. There was no denying that height, or that bounce in the man's every step. Alfred had finally come. Arthur's savior.

Francis looked up as well, noticing he sudden change in attention. His eyes narrowed, as his lips curved into a half snarl, half smile. Francis's competition had finally arrived, and the man in question was making his way directly to them as well, only stopping occasionally to pay some hurried respects to various important members of the nobility. Luckily, however, this was only a small event, and soon enough, Marquess Jones was standing before the two, his eyes warily assessing the situation.

"Good evening, ambassador, m'lady," he murmured, bowing down deeply in greeting, though doing so in such a way that made it clear his respect was meant for Elizabeth, and Elizabeth only.

Straightening up, the Marquess's gaze passed over Arthur first, and the actor tried his best to send a dear-Lord-please-get-me-out-of-this-mess look in the man's way, while still trying not to arouse any suspicion from the cunning Frenchman by his side. Alfred showed no recognition of such an expression, and he shifted his eyes past Arthur's beseeching look. The moment Francis and Alfred locked eyes, the air electrified. Elizabeth could actually feel the hairs on her neck raise on end, and her sudden quivering was not assisted by the fact that this encounter brought back unwanted memories of the last time the three of them had been together.

"Bonsoir, Marquess," Francis murmured in reply, making no move to stand up or return the bow with any formal gesture of his own. Elizabeth—or more so, Arthur—took this as an opportunity to rise, and in doing so, get some distance between him and the sly Frenchman.

Curtsying deeply, Elizabeth replied, "Good evening... Alfred." She spoke the name with a hushed tone, treasuring how it rolled of her lips and into the air, like some butterfly, freshly released from captivity. The Marquess rewarded her with a glance and a warm smile, and that made her almost forget about the predicament she found herself in once again.

"I apologize for my lateness this evening, Elizabeth." He relished in his first name status with the Lady, simply because, as far as he knew, it was one step above what Francis had attained so far.

However, such smugness was quickly dashed when Francis interrupted Elizabeth's ready reply. "Elizabeth and I were just speaking about ze Wester'olme ball next week. Surely, you will be in attendance?"

Alfred's eyes narrowed as he turned back to face his enemy for love. "The Earl is a good friend of mine. Of course I shall be there." _But you already know that_, he thought. Alfred still had a bitter taste in his mouth from hearing the Frenchman call Elizabeth—_his_ Elizabeth—by first name. That should have been illegal somehow, fowl play, to be sure.

"C'est magnifique. I am 'oping to make some important announcements by zen, and zat ball is as good a time as any to receive your _kind_ congratulations." Elizabeth's eyebrows furrowed delicately with confusion. Announcements? It was a time of relative peace; what announcements did an ambassador have to give?

Alfred chuckled and dug his heel into the ground. "Maybe I could say the same in return." It was in jest, of course, for neither of them could work that quickly. But if Francis was talking about marriage announcements, surely he would have to work harder than that to fight against Alfred for it. Alfred already felt like he was winning Elizabeth over, though he could never be too careful.

"Maybe you could," the Frenchman replied. He pulled himself up with one swift, effortless motion. Placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder, the ambassador leaned in close—almost too close. But then again, it could have been just an illusion from Elizabeth's odd vantage point.

"But if you would like me to be honest, _Alfred_, I doubt zat you can," Francis whispered, his eyes narrowing into a challenge. Alfred clenched his fist and willed himself not only to avoid shaking off that bastard frog's hand on his shoulder, but also to avoid punching him right in the jaw. He had no more words for Francis, and if he were to even open his mouth now, nothing but spit would come flying at the Frenchman's face. Luckily, the ambassador seemed to sense that, and he probably didn't dare risk his expensively tailored suit just for a spitting match.

"Well, I best be on my way. Zere are ozers whom I have yet to greet tonight." He turned to Elizabeth and bowed once again. "Merci, madame, for starting off my evening so wonderfully. Because of you, whatever else may happen tonight"—Francis shot Alfred a look so quickly that Arthur almost missed it—"no'sing will dampen my mood." _And I very much would like you to try, Alfred._

Elizabeth was so utterly lost as to the sudden turn in conversation that in her confusion, she curtsied and replied before she even realized what she had done. Francis took her hand on a whim, and kissed it in parting. Arthur wasn't sure if he had imagined it, but he could have sworn the grip was a bit tighter than usual, and Francis's eyes seemed to narrow in what looked very much like suspicion. The Frenchman glanced up quizzically at Elizabeth, and for a moment, Arthur feared that—but the look passed just as quickly as everything else had just now. It was too fast for Arthur (not to mention Elizabeth) to keep up with. As she watched the ambassador's retreating back—trying her hardest not to stare at his swaying behind—Elizabeth's mind was drawing a complete blank on the past five minutes.

Lady Percy turned back to Alfred with a bemused expression, but Alfred simply shook his head and stepped closer, taking advantage of her temporary disorientation to make his sudden proximity even more intoxicating. "Are you all right, Elizabeth?" he asked, his sweet voice dripping with care and concern. His eyes searched hers, seeming to look for a sign that something was a miss, whereas in reality, he was just looking for Arthur.

Finding herself to be far more easily distracted when in the presence of either of these men, Elizabeth's mind quickly turned away from confusion and onto enchantment once again. And as she stared at those deep, cerulean eyes, all she could do was nod. Arthur tried his best to convey whatever he could through that simple action as well, but he, too, was quite distracted by other things.

"I am relieved," Alfred murmured, flashing her a small grin—a grin which she was growing to adore, and which Arthur had grown to love for weeks already. He couldn't help but feel a small sense of smugness once again that he had arrived at something before Elizabeth, even if that actual something was highly ambiguous and bordered upon sinning. A victory was still a victory, no matter how small or how unwanted.

The Marquess laughed and proceeded to ask Elizabeth about her day. They went on to make small conversation, and, as he always did, he complimented her upon her good looks, highlighting her hair ribbon that evening, which was the true pride of her outfit. Such comments never failed to make her giggle with delight, a sound which was fast growing to grate on Alfred's nerves and cause Arthur's vocal nerves actual pain. Neither of them liked this courtship charade much anymore, even if it had been enjoyable sometime in the beginning. But now that they had tasted the simplicity that was a walk in the garden without a dress, or an afternoon reading side by side without the need for polite conversation, neither wished to go back to more complicated times. Being Lady Percy and Marquess Harrington was only nice until the discovery of being Arthur and Alfred had been made. Once one uncovered the miracle of eating soup with a spoon, why would one ever resort to doing it with a knife anymore?

Of course, that wasn't to say that the rest of the night was unenjoyable. It was quite a relief, actually, for Francis left them in peace. Arthur thought that was progress, but Alfred, on the other hand, was anxious of the trouble to come. He knew Francis well enough to know that this peace was only a temporary acquiescence. In fact, it was probably meant as an insult, insinuating that Alfred couldn't win _without_ this lull in competition. Ambassador Bonnefoy was practically handing Elizabeth over for the evening, with a nice convenient note of "enjoy it while you can" plastered to the front.

Well, Alfred would do just that, and he would make sure that "while he could" extended far beyond anything that would make that damned frog happy. Between the two of them, one simply could not fight fire with fire. One had to fight fire with a volcano, and then retaliate with an earthquake. But for the sake of Arthur's safety—and for many other Arthur-related reasons which Alfred was quite ready to deny at the moment—the Marquess would be more than happy to take up that challenge.

* * *

Arthur had had no idea what was in store for him for the next three weeks. There was no way he could have predicted, sitting there in that warm courtyard, that the month of June would be so hectic and so unbelievable. It was a routinely repetitive three weeks, but the routine itself was sheer insanity. Apparently, that evening in the courtyard, that tense confrontation between Alfred and Francis, had been the beginning of some silent agreement that the actor had missed completely. It wasn't even an agreement to disagree; it was an agreement to disagree and then prove to the other person just why his point was so clearly invalid. In other words, Arthur was being pushed back and forth between Marquess and ambassador, and he had nowhere to run, and no way to hide.

June was the main and most busy month of the season, and that much was clear in Elizabeth's schedule almost every night. Arthur could recall practically no free time during those three weeks, as he was learning to embroider, paint and play piano by day, and then changing into Elizabeth to attend balls and gatherings by night, well into the wee hours of the morning. Elizabeth had no space to think as she was whisked from one activity to the next. Any girl would have been well worn and exhausted by the end of three weeks of such mayhem, not to mention one that was so desperately sought after by two very ardent men.

In any other situation, Arthur would have found it comical, actually. Alfred and Francis dominated the competition between themselves, and any other poor soul who wished to bid for Elizabeth's affections would probably have a better chance of marrying the long-deceased Queen Elizabeth instead. They themselves made that quite evident in the way that they vied for her attentions, interrupting each other's time, making her switch off partners for every other dance, and all in all trying desperately to get her to finally decide between the two.

However, this wasn't any other situation, and Arthur was not amused. He was weary and worn, and he very desperately wished for a reprieve from his busy schedule. His regular voice was starting to become hoarse with disuse and abuse, and he found himself being Elizabeth even as he went through daily routines like eating breakfast or washing his face. It was appalling and horrifying, and he wished for a chance to crush those habits before they became any worse.

There was also the downside that Arthur and Alfred simply had no time for each other any more, which was ironic, considering they also had more time for each other than ever. Arthur had hoped (and Alfred had as well) that their new resolve for friendship would have some opportunity to be practiced and improved upon. Another lazy afternoon spent lounging in the gardens would have been nice, or even an hour or two of dinner together would have been much appreciated, like in the days of old. By the end of those three weeks, it had been a month since Arthur and Alfred had formally dined together, and both men missed it very dearly.

Nevertheless, his pain was, they hoped, all for a good cause. Arthur was sick with the effort, but he was sure that Alfred's insistent courtship was really beginning to sway Elizabeth, even if the girl was proving to be far more stubborn than either actor or Marquess wanted. Of course, Francis was putting up a valiant offense, which was both admirable and highly irritating all at once.

Elizabeth was dizzy with confusion and effort as she shifted slowly through those three weeks. She simply could not pick. Every time she thought she knew for sure, her heart would do an about face, and she would have to begin once again. The same arguments worked both ways, and both men had plenty of positive traits to support them. Thank god that there were no other incidents like the scandalous one from before, but then again, perhaps such an incident would have given her a clearer look into the darker sides of both men and helped her along in her decision. Surely, this constant back and forth honestly could not hold out for much longer before someone would take note of their game and begin spreading about their sentiments of disapproval.

Arthur fought hard to keep his thoughts in line as well, independently from Elizabeth's mental wanderings. He was growing more and more easily distracted as time went on. He found that he really missed those fleeting moments in which he could simply be himself around Alfred, rather than have to go through this shy and bumbling simpleton of a character. The giggles hurt his throat, and the jealousy scorched his heart. Why did some fictional character deserve more time with Alfred than Arthur himself did? Was Arthur really that pathetic that he couldn't compete with a made-up woman?

Thus, it was competition all around for the month of June, Alfred and Francis for Elizabeth's affections, and Elizabeth and Arthur for Alfred's attention. It was an exhausting and sickening period, and all parties involved constantly felt both energized and drained at the same time. Things became even more heated as the men began to pay house visits, taking plans and meetings into their own hands.

Francis was the first, having made plans with the Countess to come and hold afternoon tea with Elizabeth, about one week after that encounter in the courtyard. Alfred retaliated by making plans of his own, which was completely unnecessary, considering there would be no one watching them that wasn't privy to the plan already. But the Marquess was intent on taking this seriously, and as such, he would carry through on every aspect of courtship, even the unnecessary ones. And Alfred surprised Arthur by staying in character the whole time during the house visit, much to Elizabeth's delight and the actor's annoyance. He wanted Alfred to joke with and smile at _him_, not with some low-intelligence, wishy-washy girl. And as time wore on, and more house visits occurred, Arthur began to hate Elizabeth with an unhealthy passion—which was woefully coincidental, considering Alfred was feeling much the same.

The Marquess enjoyed the moments he had with Elizabeth only because he knew that behind it all, it was private time with Arthur. He admired the actor's brave front, his work ethic, his strong, independent mind, his incredible ability to act, his keen sense of reading a situation, his stubbornness and inability to give up, his—well, his _everything_. Alfred was hard pressed to find something that he disliked about Arthur, for everything was either endearing or awe-inspiring. And as he got to spend more and more time with Arthur, albeit under odd and false circumstances, the Marquess was exposed to varying sides of this wonderful man that was Arthur Kirkland, actor extraordinaire. Was a man that was so equally handsome and talented even allowed to exist? Surely, that must have been against some divine law, but Alfred didn't mind. Arthur was breathtaking to behold, physically, emotionally, and mentally, and it gave Alfred something to look forward to every day, even if the man's eyes would be the only aspect of him that would show through the heavy disguise at every encounter.

Alfred was growing to love this private time with Arthur much more than he ought to have, and he knew exactly why. Of course, he dared not hope about it—dared not even _think_ about it, for that was treacherous territory that would undoubtedly tear the relationship apart. Alfred could lie to himself. He could wake up every morning, splash water on his clean shaven face, and tell himself, without hesitation, that friendship was all he ever wanted from the painfully perfect man that was Arthur—_more_ than he had ever wanted, actually, or had hoped to have. And that was enough.

It was... enough. And perhaps if Alfred kept repeating that to himself, such a blatant lie would eventually become reality.

Arthur and Alfred both had their share of denial issues which arose from these three eventful weeks of competition. Alfred tried his best not to think about it, and Arthur, much worse at ignoring matters, was simply trying to cope with the ridiculous fact that he was jealous over a fictional character. It was a blow to one's self esteem to realize that there was actually an active competition to be had there, and it irritated him to no end whenever he had to face the Marquess under the guise of Elizabeth Percy.

Nevertheless, however annoying the moments with Alfred were, they were not nearly as terrible as the private house visits with Francis. The man had no concept of personal space, or so it seemed to Arthur (for Elizabeth was often too preoccupied with libidinous thoughts to really notice anything else but Francis's hand on hers). If it weren't for the Countess's constant back and forth chaperoning presence, the actor was sure he would have gotten sexually assaulted at least once by the time those three weeks were up.

However, despite the chaperoning, Francis still had his fair share of close encounters. He was far bolder than Alfred, and would lean in close and whisper to Elizabeth about just how pretty she was, and all Arthur could do was scoff inwardly and completely criticize the Frenchman because Alfred had a far better voice. Francis would glance over at Elizabeth seductively sometimes as he chewed on whatever poor piece of bread was getting defiled by his teeth, and as Elizabeth swooned, all Arthur could do was shiver and wonder just what those teeth would feel like biting on his lips—in a bad way, of course. It wouldn't be attractive whatsoever, Arthur was sure. Nothing could be attractive when compared to one Alfred F. Jones.

The thought of Alfred was what kept the actor going through those three weeks, and Arthur was so utterly relieved when he finally felt Elizabeth start to shift toward Alfred at the end of it—well, he would have been, had it not been for the reason behind _why_ such a change of heart had ever occurred. It began, like most bad situations, with a man and a woman, sitting inches apart, on a sofa, eating scones on a warm afternoon.

"... I wouldn't have won, you see, hadn't it been for Chester and his excitable, tail-wagging intervention," Alfred explained, nearing the end of retelling to Elizabeth one of his more interesting fencing matches with the Earl of Westerholme, whom Elizabeth had only recently met formally at the man's ball two weeks before. Of course, neither the girl nor the actor behind her were really listening to the story, both far too entranced with the movement of Alfred's lips as he told the tale.

"... Do I have something on my face?" Alfred asked, puzzled at the fact that there was no reaction from his one-person audience. He reached a hesitant hand up to his cheek and brushed away at some imaginary dirt, brows furrowed in confusion.

"No, there is not!" Elizabeth blurted out, a bit too loudly and too quickly to be natural. Her face flushed red, and she turned away, in the hopes of using her hair to hide the scarlet of her cheeks.

She jumped and squealed in surprise when she felt a hand brush her ear, and turned to find that Alfred was pulling her curly locks back to once again reveal her face. He was leaning in a bit closer, smiling at her so warmly and so sweetly that it made Arthur want to punch Elizabeth—himself—in the face.

"'Tis a pity, you know, that you should choose to hide such a comely visage," he murmured, and Elizabeth could feel his moist breath on her cheeks, smelling like freshly baked raspberry scones. This was usually when Count Héderváry intervened when it came to Francis's equivalent actions, but in this instance, she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten something in the other room and excused herself to retrieve it instead. Neither Marquess nor Lady particularly noticed, however, for they were far too busy staring into each other's eyes.

"Y-You flatter me so," Elizabeth murmured, so softly that it was practically a whisper. She fought the urge to lean into Alfred's hand, which had still not moved away from her cheek, despite having already successfully tucked the locks back securely behind her ear. Arthur was comforted by the warmth radiating from that smooth, uncalloused palm—so much so that he temporarily forgot that he was supposed to be appalled by such feelings.

But surely, for Alfred F. Jones, God could wait.

As Alfred stared into those luminous green eyes, his thoughts flashed back to the past three months. Undoubtedly, these had been some of the most enjoyable months of his life in this past decade, and that was far from what he had expected when he had first embarked upon this whim of a plan months ago. Although things had first began as a game to pass the time for a life of boredom, they had quickly evolved into something so much larger than that. Freedom was really in his grasp, and that thought was exhilarating. So much had happened, and so much more was bound to happen, but what had occurred so far had already changed Alfred for the better. He was no longer bored; he longer led a life based on mere whims and fancies; he cared more about his reputation and his outward personality; he actually had a friend; he now had something to protect; he—

And they kissed.

It was chaste and sudden, very simple to carry out and not easy to fumble. Alfred closed his eyes, pressed his lips against hers, and Elizabeth melted right into the Marquess's hand. Arthur, for the moment, forgot who he was quite easily, and fell into the kiss just as willingly. It felt natural, peaceful, and so thoroughly magnificent. He would let nothing—not even God—ruin this moment.

After a moment, the Marquess pulled back. They sat in silence for a bit, not even daring to breathe for fear of disturbing the magical atmosphere around them. And then, simultaneously, both averted their eyes, though neither moved apart. Elizabeth was dizzy with excitement and happiness, while Arthur was still trying to comprehend exactly what had just happened. Both actor and Marquess took a few moments to themselves, one because he was silently repeating Bible prayers for forgiveness and mercy, and the other because he already knew—and accepted, though grimly—the full meaning of what that kiss had meant. For once in his life, such an action had not been based off of pure whim. Alfred had meant what he had conveyed through that action, and this new knowledge disturbed and terrified him.

Though it was Elizabeth's name on his tongue, and her hand in his own, in the end, as he sat there in silence, Alfred's mind was flashing through memories of a man whom he had gradually grown to adore over the past three months. An actor, born into an underprivileged family, yet somehow still possessing the ability to be so utterly riveting and bewitching nevertheless. A friend, who had come into his life in the most unexpected way and changed Alfred completely, for the better. And, most importantly, an angel, who corrected Alfred when he thought that he did not need a friend—that he did not need a lover. Alfred wasn't quite sure what to call it, and maybe there was no name for it. He just knew what he needed, and what he needed was Arthur Kirkland.

That was it. The final truth. Alfred F. Jones, Marquess, loved Arthur Kirkland, actor. And Alfred loved Arthur with such protectiveness, such ferocity, and such passion that he could not even lie to himself about it.

Although, to be honest, he very much wished he could.

* * *

**References/Notes:**

1. "Frog" was in usage by this point as a derogatory name for the French! I did so much research into this, you have no idea. I even read original manuscripts to make sure this was the case. Here's your bit of history: before the 19th century, "frog" would refer to the Dutch. However, from 1805 onward, as Britain's public enemy number one switched from the Dutch to the French, that word began to apply to Frenchmen. And since this fic takes place around 1850 or so, we are well into French "frog" period by now. The French, in turn, called the British "rosbif" (roast beef), mainly because that was all the French believed the British were capable of cooking—and badly, at that.

2. The Swan River Colony: a British settlement in Western Australia, established in 1829. Alfred likes to talk history and politics with Arthur, remember? Thus, it shouldn't be a surprise that he knows such things (I should hope).

3. I tried my hardest with an Austrian accent this time, which I know I didn't have before. They're actually surprisingly hard to depict in words, so I'm sorry if I didn't pull it off well enough. They don't quite sound like a German accent from, say, Berlin, and if I had to describe it, it's like if you crossed a Liverpool accent with a standard German accent, and then added Canadian inflections to it. Just Google it, and you'll see what I mean.

4. I capitalize "Marquess," "Count," "Countess," "Duke," and "Lady" because these words are ones that I use to mean those specific people. If I mean just any old duke, or something, then I will not be capitalized, for sure.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Hey! First of all, I have been sitting here, writing this chapter for... ten hours now. I have not eaten, or slept, or gone to the bathroom or whatever. It's just been me, this chapter, and the occasional Tumblr outing to keep my mind from frying. So guys, it's 6:00 a.m. right now, and I think I'm probably going to bed very, very soon. I just wanted to apologize for being late. I know chapters usually come out earlier, but I just couldn't pull it off this weekend. But I tried my hardest! It's only like, six hours past the weekend for me over here. Forgivemepleasedon'thurtme. -_-"

Anyways, onto this chapter. This chapter is... interesting. It's not one that I feel proud of, and I sort of feel like it's more a collage of broken glass pieces, like a mosaic, rather than a coherent and working chapter. Then again, I might have just been staring at this for too long (FAR TOO LONG). Please let me know what you think, both on fluency and on content. I'm worrying about this one more than most, because I fear that I've tried to fit too much into one chapter—but then again, I also fear that I didn't fit enough. It's an odd feeling, and I can't quite explain it, but nevertheless, it still stands.

Also, Alfred is so much faster to his feelings than Arthur is, ne? Poor guy's still in denial, whereas Alfred has lived with homosexuality for a large part of his life already, and is quite smart enough (and used to it enough) to see signs when they come. Bet you guys weren't expecting a love realization this chapter, were you?

As a side note, I finally wrote one of your story suggestions! SakuraMoriChan won the random draw, and I wrote about England and Romano for her, in her crazy horror/humor prompt (man, you guys really like giving me a challenge, don't you?). Thus, please check it out when you can. I don't write humor often, but I must say, it was quite a fun experience.

I have also picked the next lucky victim for my butchery of their idea. That story should be out within a few days, I should hope. I shan't tell you who I picked, in order to keep it a surprise for that person as well, but I will say that his/her idea has me bouncing up and down with never-ending giddiness.

Onwards! You would think that at some point, the quote "All the world's a stage..." would make it into this fic, but somehow, that just never comes up. I have a feeling it might make it in there someday, but it just never fits because there are just so many other things that fit better. But I just thought I'd share with you how funny I found it that, from the beginning, I've thought about that quote (I even considered making it the title for quite a while). Hm. Actually, should I make that the title? Now that I've mentioned it, the idea is back in my head. **Do you guys like the current title, or would you like to see it changed to "All the World's a Stage"?** I sort of like the quirky playfulness of the current one, but, like most authors, there is always that seed of doubt.

Also, I updated my profile! Now it has statuses for current fics, background for completed fics, and, most importantly, plans for future fics! I have quite a few of them that have been bursting out of me, and I haven't put them all down on the profile, but I've put down the ones that I definitely mean to write someday. I'm toying with other ideas, but I won't put them down until I know for sure that I want to write them, and I know the majority of what the plot is going to be. Thus, I beseech you to take a look at them, and if you are planning on reviewing, then it would be wonderful to **add a little blurb in there about which you're most excited to see next.** That way I know which I should focus on planning, since I am ambivalent about which I'd want to write from this point onward. (I'm sort of having an inner fangirl giddiness about writing MI6Spy!England, though—or ThiefExtraordinaire!America as well, for that matter). UGH. They're all just so sexy. Help me~

Happy reading!  
Galythia

P.S. As a reminder, I do have a tumblr now! Come find me! Ask me or my characters some questions (that way I might even be able to practice drawing them too)! :3 (galythia . tumblr . com)

P.P.S. With this chapter update, we have crossed the "Longest Chapter So Far" mark (I think it's ridiculously long, personally), _and_ we have officially passed _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ in overall length (though clearly not in any notable skill). I just realized this two days ago, and my mind is a bit blown. And while I realize that countless fanfic authors reach this point and beyond, and it's not that grand of a feat, my surprise lies more in _you guys_. Thank you, all of you, for having stuck with me this far. Even if the adventure is not as riveting, and the characters are not as compelling, you still spent the time equivalent to what it takes to read _HP and the Chamber of Secrets_ (actually, probably more, once you review and everything). That's _a lot_ of time. So thank you, thank you, thank you! I can never, ever thank you enough.


	10. Losing My Religion

**Disclaimer: **I usually don't put anything here, but I felt the need to warn you this time around that this chapter is _crazy_, and not in a good way (the writing, I mean. I swear those words were drunk, considering the way in which they arranged themselves in this chapter (though I _am_ proud of this chapter's beginning, just not the ending)). Thus, I warn you in advance. Oh, and come to think of it, the content itself is actually crazy too. Like Arthur, I am willing to bet Alfred's fortune that you didn't see some of it coming. So Happy reading!

* * *

_"One of the most important things I've learned about acting is that_  
_you can't separate how you live your life and how you practice your art."_

- Larry Moss -

* * *

**.: 9. Losing My Religion :.**

* * *

Arthur slapped Alfred. No, that wasn't a strong enough word for it. Arthur slammed the palm of his hand into the side of Alfred's face, sending the Marquess recoiling into the sofa's backrest, his own hand coming up involuntarily to nurse his sudden injury.

The actor was breathing heavily, his face flushed a darker crimson than that of any of the drapes in the Jones manor. He hand one hand clasped tightly over his mouth, as the other still hung in the air, frozen and stinging from the force of that blow. However, Arthur's mind was far too preoccupied to notice the pain of his hand, as his livid eyes glared directly at Alfred.

The _bastard_.

Although it had taken him a moment to comprehend what Alfred had done, Arthur was how fully aware of the physical transaction that had just occurred. And Lord help him if he murdered Alfred right on the spot for showing such outrageous audacity. His anger was so vast and expansive that any trace of Elizabeth and her joy of being kissed was gone.

Decimated. Exterminated. Vanquished.

The Marquess averted his eyes, his lips set in a tight grimace that had nothing to do with physical pain. It wasn't like he hadn't expected this reaction from Arthur; he had just thought that acting under the guise of Elizabeth would force the actor into some self control—if Alfred had been thinking anything at all during the kiss, that is.

The Marquess had had a sneaking suspicion for a few days already that there was something more in his heart for the young actor than just the warmth of friendship. And try as he might, he had been unable to lie himself about it. As time went on, that insistent longing gnawed at his thoughts further and further, until it all burst open and resulted in... well, this. Alfred wasn't sure where all of these feelings began, but now that they were here, they seemed to be here to stay.

And let there be no misunderstanding: that was bad. Very bad.

The Marquess had intended to keep it to himself, but from the shock and disgust in Arthur's eyes at the moment, and the tingling on his own lips, he knew how well that plan had turned out. As he mindlessly rubbed his aching cheek, Alfred tried to tell himself that he had been merely acting in the moment, that the kiss had been meant for Lady Percy instead. But Alfred knew himself too well for that to even be remotely plausible.

Nevertheless, it was worth a try. Anything was better than this mess he had just caused by his own stupidity.

Again.

"Elizabeth," Alfred tentatively began, trying to look sincere, "I never meant to... I mean, I thought you reciprocated..." _Look into his eyes, Alfred. Goddamnit look into his bloody eyes._ "Did I misunderstand your feelings?" Cripes. That hadn't been a good way to phrase things.

The actor stared at Alfred long and hard. "... No," Arthur replied after some silence, his voice lethally quiet.

Alfred's eyes widened imperceptibly. Could this actually work? Could they just pretend that it had been acting and move on past the fact that it had felt utterly magical to feel their lips pressed against each other? That it had been so_ sensual_ that Alfred could honestly say he had never understood the meaning of that word until then? Could they move past the fact that kisses between them were quickly becoming a thorough addiction, despite only having experienced it once before?

Apparently, they could not, for Arthur's next words dashed all of Alfred's hope for a smooth transition.

"Not in a _millennia_, Alfred sodding Jones," Arthur spat out.

The actor lowered his hand from his mouth, his body visibly shaking with what Alfred assumed was rage—and Arthur wouldn't have been able to correct him, because he had no clue what it was he was feeling either. It was a jumble of warring emotions, and they were all so strong and mixed up at the moment that Arthur could not even begin to identify even one of them above the din of the rest.

Thus, he did what came naturally: he settled for anger. That was always an effective answer for anyone who despised the feeling of hopelessness and confusion as Arthur did.

Alfred tried to push through with his acting, nevertheless. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I—"

"Stop it!" Arthur's eyes were watery, and he rubbed at them fiercely to clear away the tears—definitely tears of irritation, the actor assured himself. There was no other plausible reason to cry, least of all over jealousy that Alfred had just kissed _Elizabeth_.

"Just stop!" the actor continued. Somewhere in his mind, he noticed that the Countess had peeked into the room, but had left immediately upon seeing the drama within, a startled and worried expression on her features.

Alfred cringed, despising this image of Arthur so strongly disturbed. He didn't quite have enough space in his mind to feel anything else at the moment besides a great amount of guilt for having caused such obvious distress, though he was sure the rest of the emotions would assault him later. For now, it was all about Arthur. All about Alfred's... love.

This wasn't the way Alfred had imagined his love revelation to come, exactly. Something that was supposed to be a life changing discovery, on which he was supposed to dwell, think, then act, was turning out to be far more disruptive and headache inducing instead. And he hadn't even confessed—dear Lord, Alfred _never_ planned to do that with Arthur. If society and his own past experiences hadn't taught him anything about his "unacceptable" and "outlandish" view on romance, then Arthur was making it perfectly clear right now. Very, very well.

"Elizabeth," Alfred murmured, taking his own hand down from his still-red cheek. The pain of his face did not come even close to comparing with the guilty ache of his heart or the apologetic agony in his eyes—a feature which rendered him even more handsome and sincere in Arthur's opinion—something which he did not need at the moment. Thus, the actor decided right then and there that he hated that expression of Alfred's with vehemence.

"I said stop!" Arthur clenched his fists. "It is ridiculous to keep up an act when there is no audience!" Arthur stood up swiftly and moved away to the window across the room. Alfred involuntarily reached up to hold the actor back, but his hand lingered on empty space, for Arthur had moved too quickly. The sofa suddenly felt very cold, just as the atmosphere as well was piercing in its frigidity.

Alfred had never thought that Arthur could hate the prospect of kissing a man so much that he, so dedicated and connected to his roles, would even break acting out of disgust for it. That was a surprise—and a bitterly unwelcome one, at that.

The Marquess hardened his expression and tried one more time to restore the natural order. He was getting quite desperate for anything, just to get that heartbreaking expression off of his dear Arthur's face.

"Elizabeth, I'm sor—"

"It is not to her that you should be apologizing," Arthur spat back, his eyes fixed on the window frame. His eyes burned with raging jealousy, though neither his mind nor Alfred's would ever believe that was the reason for his anger.

"_Why_, Arthur?" Alfred snapped. He knew why, he just didn't desire to apologize, mainly because he wanted to keep on thinking that he was acceptable, that his sexuality was acceptable. Was society right? Was Alfred a defective member of the public? Was he more of a danger to the world than he was an asset? Alfred struggled to push these doubts down, so sure that he had overcome them long ago, when Francis...

No. He wouldn't think about that frog now, especially after this tragic event with Arthur and Elizabeth. Now was no time for dwelling. He wouldn't give up. There was still a chance.

"Why should I apologize to you?" Alfred tried to sound angry rather than woefully guilty, and it seemed to work, considering the expressions into which Arthur's face contorted in reaction.

"_Why?_" the actor finally sputtered, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I— you—" Arthur's mind worked furiously to find a reason. Anger only worked up to a very shallow point, and that point went by the name of logic.

"Argh," Arthur let out, in a frustrated groan. "You kissed me!" The words were out of his lips before he could register even the thought of it, and by then, it was far too late to retract. The room was pulled into stunned silence. Speaking it aloud seemed to give it much more weight and make it that much more a reality, something which neither of them desired that the moment, for highly opposite reasons.

Arthur turned his face away from Alfred, his countenance even a more brilliant shade of red than before. He tried his best to work with his mistake. "You kissed me, you self-righteous, lily-livered, tuck!"—his mind always went to Shakespeare when agitated—"And for that, you should apologize profusely!" He crossed his arms and set his expression in a hard look of scorn and frustration.

Arthur could not see Alfred's face as the Marquess began to reply, and thus, he did not know just how much Alfred wished to apologize. It was as clear as day on his countenance that Alfred wanted to get onto his knees, bow down deeply, and plead for Arthur's forgiveness. And he would have, had he not seen another option.

But in all situations, there was always a choice, no matter how painful. It just so happened that this path was at a murderous crossroad, and there was destruction everywhere, no matter the direction. So Alfred picked the one he always picked: distance between himself and everybody else.

"You are gravely mistaken, Arthur." That name now sounded so wonderful on Alfred's lips, ever since he realized he was in love. But the act of saying it itself hurt more than Alfred would ever be able to explain, especially since he knew what he was going to say next.

"I did not kiss you." The revulsion in his own voice surprised Alfred. Maybe he was a better actor than he had previously thought. "I kissed Elizabeth. It was an act, Arthur." Alfred even let a little sarcasm color his tone. "Surely you do not think me so low and _vile_ as to desire to kiss a man?"

That was a stab to the heart. That last comment affected the both of them quite deeply, and Alfred actually winced, unbeknownst to Arthur. The actor was too busy pulling a confused expression to notice much else. That comment had made him angrier, but it also pulled at his heart in a way that could not be mistaken for anything other than... sadness. The thought of Alfred kissing Elizabeth had hurt, but now that the Marquess had confirmed it, Arthur almost felt the floor drop out from underneath him. It was the type of pain that yearned to be noticed, and clawed at the soul until it was. It was the type of pain that Arthur had established as going hand in hand with... jealousy?

Arthur shook his head vigorously, and Alfred was too busy blinking back tears to notice. No. Arthur wouldn't think of it. Any of it. Not now. Not ever. Arthur didn't need this, just like he didn't need his bloody physical attraction to his employer. He didn't need the dresses, the lessons, the dunce of a girl that was his job, the desire for physical contact, and the desire for so much mor—no. **No.** Arthur slammed his fist against the windowsill. He didn't need any of it. What he needed was—

"I need to go."

Alfred glanced up, halfway through taking some deep, calming breaths. His eyes were still vigorously blinking, as he willed the hot summer air to dry them.

"Where?" Alfred blinked. Was his voice really that shaky?

"Home."

Alfred clenched his fists and struggled to fight down the torrent of emotions that threatened to sweep him away. There was a time and place for a mental breakdown, and that was not here nor now.

The Marquess, however, knew he couldn't bear the situation for much longer. That fleeting feeling of happiness that had ran through him upon realizing that he was, in fact, able to love again, was just that: fleeting. It had pranced along, ready to improve Alfred's life and transform it into something utterly magical, like love was often depicted to do in literature.

But emotions had a nasty habit of forgetting the world in which they existed.

This was England. Alfred was a nobleman, and the Marquess of Devonshire, at that. He was set to marry a kind, respectable woman; set to have equally mundane and pretentious children; set to live out the rest of his life in a web of lies, omissions, and deceit—the greatest act of any theatre.

And under such a life, love could do nothing but maim and murder, and cause nothing but anguish and despair.

Alfred had learnt that lesson long ago, but somehow, over the course of his relationship with this one-of-a-kind actor, his heart had forgotten. And at only ten minutes into its mistake, his heart was already paying the price.

The Marquess looked up at the ceiling and breathed, "Very well." He closed his eyes. "Let us go." With one last deep intake of air, Alfred straightened his shoulders and turned on his heels.

"No." Arthur's voice was tight, straining through clenched teeth. "I meant I want to go _home._"

Alfred froze. The majority of his British tone had all but gone as he replied, "... That's where we're going." He swallowed, a sound which reverberated in his own ears. He felt as if a boulder was weighing down the bottom of his stomach. A boulder with thorns and a bullwhip for good measure.

Alfred's pulse was racing. Arthur couldn't possibly mean—

"I want to go back to Hertfordshire."

In any other situation, Alfred would have mentally commented on how odd it was that he never even knew the general location of Arthur's home until now. But then again, they seldom spoke about their pasts beyond the subject of age. There was so much Alfred now wished to divulge, but there was also an equal amount which he wished to bury away forever. Now was not the time for either of those, however, and as things were going, there was likely to never be a time for that at all.

Alfred stared at the ground. He would be strong. He could fight through this, if only long enough to finish the conversation.

"Hertfordshire..." he whispered, mostly to himself.

"Yes, Alfred," the actor shot back, his tone biting, "_home._"

That last addition had been wholly unnecessary, and they both knew it. But Arthur was feeling spiteful, and Alfred was too guilty to argue. The Marquess was sorely mistaken if he ever thought that Arthur would see the Jones Estate as "home"—which, admittedly, he did. Just a little, and very foolishly so.

When Alfred could think of no reply, Arthur got impatient. The silence was too heavy, and he could almost feel the back pains developing from its weight—or was that heart pain instead? Whatever it was, the actor could do without it.

Arthur pushed past Alfred and was halfway out the door before the Marquess even realized what was happening.

"Arthur! Wait! What about—"

"Don't worry," the actor murmured, pausing at the door, one hand on its frame. "I'll be back." Arthur turned ever so slightly so that Alfred could see his steeled eyes, which were glaring daggers at the carpet. "Above all else, Alfred, I am an actor. And you can bet all of that damned fortune of yours that I will do my _job_."

Because that was all it was, of course. A job. And if Arthur and Alfred kept repeating that to themselves, it might just become the truth—or so they hoped. Neither of their lives needed these complications, no matter how wonderful the idea of love was, because the actual manifestation of love itself was, tragically, a completely different beast. God's ultimate bait-and-switch.

Before the Marquess could formulate a reply, Arthur detached himself from the doorframe and proceeded down the hall. Alfred willed his feet to move, but this was all happening far too fast for his mind to register. By the time he was madly dashing down the corridor after the love of his life, said person was already around the corner and out of sight. Of course, there was only one front door, and the house wasn't all that large, but Alfred's emotional heart had given up—long before his physical one had.

In the middle of the hallway, Alfred fell to his knees. It had started as a trip caused by a fold in the rug, but once he was on the ground, he found he had no will to rise again. Alfred brought a hand up to his chest, never believing that pain from an emotion—make that a hoard of emotions—could actually render him legitimately immobile, until now.

Alfred's grip tightened, fingernails digging into his chest, hard enough to leave marks despite the dress shirt and jacket in between. Perhaps if Alfred could tear out his own heart, then all that pain would go away, right? The physical agony of a gaping and bleeding hole in his chest could surely not compare to the emotional turmoil he was feeling now.

It had been a mistake to get this close, to let his guard down, to allow a pair of forest green eyes to capture his heart. Because now his heart _was_ captured—in the jaws of a hunting trap, that is. And he had all but lost the keys to unlock it once again.

Alfred tried to remember the brief joy that had overcome him when he had kissed Arthur. It had been a moment of utter bliss and perfection, an instant so magnificent that surely, nothing could mar its beauty, even the crushing rejection and strife that had followed soon after.

And though Alfred would treasure that brief moment of utter freedom forever, it had passed all too quickly. There had been no angel choir, no time to revel in the glow, and definitely no reciprocation to cause that age-old described feeling of fulfillment. Those well-praised aspects of love had been glaringly missing, and now that Alfred was left to himself, that moment, however perfect yet imperfect, could not allay the pressing afflictions of his crushed soul.

Hertfordshire.

Alfred's love—his precious, adorably irritable love—had disappeared to Hertfordshire, simply because the actor hated the idea of male love—and by extension, probably Alfred as well—with such a passion that he could no longer stand to be around the Marquess any longer. Arthur despised Alfred so much that he could no longer even tolerate the sight of the man's face.

If that wasn't a crippling blow to his heart, Alfred didn't know what was. He squeezed his eyes shut, shivering despite the blazing June temperatures.

There was something familiar about Hertfordshire, though. Perhaps his mother had taken him there often as a child, or perhaps there was something nice to be remembered there. But amidst the silent sobs that racked his body, and the paroxysms of agony that aggrieved his heart, Alfred could not for the life of him remember what it was that made Hertfordshire so... familiar.

* * *

Alfred arrived back at the manor after a melancholy no-questions-asked cup of tea with the Edelsteins, during which Elizaveta comforted him with a variety of delicious foods, which she had learned long ago soothed Alfred's nerves quite well. Roderich had even stopped his work to pay Alfred a visit in the main drawing room, sympathy painted all over his expression.

Alfred tried his best to explain that Arthur and he had quarreled over Elizabeth's acting—which wasn't a lie, for Alfred wished very much that there didn't need to be any act at all, and Arthur obviously thought... something else. The Marquess couldn't quite understand anything about Arthur's thoughts at the moment, save for the fact that he seemed to despise Alfred with a passion. That was... regrettable.

The Marquess went on to say that he was simply distraught over the future of their plan, worried as to how they would continue, and for how long they'd have to make excuses. Nothing more. Please ignore the inexplicable tears.

It seemed as if the pair believed him—although Roderich did have an oddly knowing and empathetic expression on his face, which Alfred would have questioned more, had his mind not already been swimming with enough questions as it was.

Although both Count and Countess worried as well, neither asked further about what had occurred. Instead, they both tried to comfort Alfred in whichever way they could, yielding in a variety of perplexing results.

Elizaveta began by showing Alfred the new dress she had bought for an upcoming ball. That was a fatal mistake, however, for it was a deep, saturated shade of green—the same as that of Arthur's blazing emerald eyes. Alfred, a little calm by then, promptly began to water up once again. He did not cry, however, for that was unmanly and immature. Alfred could cry in front of nobody but his late mother, simply because society taught him, like it did so many other bitter lessons, that that was simply not done.

Thus, Alfred's eyes merely threatened tears, but that was enough for the Edelsteins to promptly move on from the subject.

Roderich proceeded to show Alfred a new piano waltz he was composing, which was a doubly terrible mistake. Alfred was blinking vigorously as he swiveled his eyes upward, willing for gravity to hold back his tears for him. Arthur was just getting to be quite good at the piano—Alfred could hear snippets in the halls—and every time the Marquess had waltzed since their first dance lesson, his mind had unfailingly strayed to Arthur and his lithe and balanced form. Roderich's piano music was not a good reminder, thoughAlfred tried his best to smile and compliment it as his countenance cracked at the edges.

After a series of other equally fruitless attempts—for it seemed that everything somehow brought Alfred's mind back to his treasured actor—the Marquess had deemed that it might have best if he just head home. "To plan," he had explained, and being the kind people that they were, the Count and Countess simply nodded and let him go.

And now Alfred was back home, doing his best to "plan" with a quickly depleting bottle of hard liquor, a plate stacked high of roast beef sandwiches, and a heap of apologetic letters he was busy writing then scrapping just as quickly. At least this was after he had already handled his main piece of work for the day, however, which he took care of promptly the moment he had arrived home.

Alfred had borrowed Madame Héderváry's carriage, simply because Arthur had whisked Alfred's carriage away, Thomas and all. In addition, it would have been highly suspicious to have had two carriages from the Jones Estate present at the Edelstein's, when only one member of the household was supposed to have been there.

Thus, it was in Elizaveta's gothic carriage that Alfred had made his way home. In that long ride, the Marquess had had enough time to sober from his pains, harden his heart, and steel his expression, if only long enough to get home and do what must be done. He had to face his staff, assure them that Alfred F. Jones still stood tall, and explain to them calmly what had happened. Or what he needed to them to believe had happened.

When Alfred had arrived home, he had sequestered himself into his study and had ordered Oswald to let nobody in except for the people on a very short list which Alfred proceeded to hand over to the puzzled butler. Oswald's name was on the list itself, and it was from him that the interviews started.

Oswald, Belle, Tino, Berwald, and Tori (the head maid) were summoned in quick succession, and Alfred gave them each the truth: Arthur had merely gone home to visit his parents. Well, maybe it wasn't the complete truth, but it was as close as anyone ever needed to get. Each of the staff heads were also requested to give an account of what Arthur did at the manor before Alfred had arrived home. And despite the gravity of the situation, and the stern seriousness with which Alfred conducted matters (a fact which frankly terrified his staff, but they knew better than to say a word), there was actually little to be found.

Arthur had apparently come back and changed as his first order of business, with Belle's help. He only stopped by the kitchen to retrieve a few of Tino's delicious apple pastries—with minimal explanation—and had somehow managed to evade Berwald entirely. Oswald had not questioned the actor, and Tori had only seen Arthur in passing. The actor had then promptly departed, once again without a word from Oswald to stop him.

Alfred knew he shouldn't have been mad at the unknowing butler, who merely had been doing his job, but the Marquess had dismissed Oswald with a terse and frustrated word nevertheless. It was illogical, but this whole situation was utterly fantastical, a butchery of reality, so who cared if Alfred was being just a tad bit unreasonable? After all, Alfred believed he had the right to be a little bit crazy after the whirlwind that was this morning. His love—his _love—_was currently in a carriage headed for home.

_His_ home. A distinctly different place, Alfred lamented, from the Jones Estate. It shouldn't have been a surprise that that was the case, yet it still hurt just the same.

Alfred took a swig of his foul whiskey right from the bottle, having long retired to his bedroom by then. He had canceled the rest of his scheduled plans, and was now pathetically sprawled out on his bed, his neck bent at an awkward angle against the headrest. Eyes closed, Alfred willed for his mind to forget, for his heart to unclench. Neither occurred—and in fact, his psyche decided to be an even crueler bastard by making it physically impossible for Alfred not to see Arthur at every turn as well.

Eyes closed or open, the Marquess saw his actor painted into every corner, ever shadow, every space. It was sinfully arousing, yet wholly agitating and depressing _because_ it was so stimulating. Was this what Phineus, King of Thrace, felt like, every time he set eyes upon the feast that he knew would soon be stolen by Harpies, and thus be tantalizingly out of his reach? Was this that desire to have something with every fiber of one's being—needing it to _live_—yet knowing that it was forever frustratingly untouchable?

The Marquess lazily devoured another beef sandwich, ignoring the crumbs that were scattering everywhere onto his chest and his sheets. Maybe the birds could peck them from his carcass as he lay dying, unable to move out of sheer pain and the need to sulk and dwell on his sorrows. What a poet Alfred was when depressed.

Alfred's long defeated doubts we coming back to haunt him now. For years, he had worked hard at building up a hard and confident exterior to bury away the worries he had about his peculiar love of men. It had taken almost a decade, with a lot of external assistance from clubs, brothels, and other men of the same inclination, to prove to Alfred that perhaps he wasn't all that odd. Little did he know that it would only take one actor to pry into his heart and flip the switch that enabled him to fall in love again, and then all his hard work would begin to unravel quickly at the seams.

Because now, Alfred _was_ very much in love. He was head-over-heels, tumbling after this elusive actor who didn't seem to care whatsoever that Alfred was amassing an impressive collection of cuts and bruises from his fall. In fact, Arthur seemed to occasionally give Alfred a kick in the shins for good measure, by no fault of his own. It was just how the cards were dealt, and in this unforgiving world, Alfred had the misfortune of being born into the worst of circumstances for his romantic inclinations and sexual deviations.

Love only came into his life to die a painful death, sorrowful and alone.

Alfred didn't want to learn that lesson _again_, but one of the faults of a stubborn heart was that it just wouldn't listen to reason. So the next best thing was to either literally stop his heart himself—an idea which he had seriously contemplated as a child, during the worst of times, but no longer did anymore—or he could drown his irritable spirit with equally fowl spirits, and chase it down with some good comfort food as well.

And it was with that latter course of action, involving many more crumbs and a new whiskey stain on the carpet, over what could have either been minutes or hours, that the Marquess finally fell into a fitful, restless sleep.

* * *

Alfred Jones swept out Lewis's office at the playhouse, his face stern, his attitude purely one of business. It had been three days since Arthur had left, and there had still been no word from the actor. The Count and Countess had hastily explained to the public that Elizabeth was quite ill from some stomach virus, hoping that that would give them enough time to sort out this mess and get back to their plan—which was now no longer a game for anyone involved. They had all become too emotionally invested, though some obviously far more than others.

Thomas had returned late on the night of that fateful event, but had failed to bring Arthur back with him. Despite knowing that it was not the driver's fault, Alfred had dragged himself out out of bed, called upon the driver, and gave him a very harsh earful from his office, ignoring the pain he had from having drank far too much whiskey earlier in the evening. There had to have been someone to blame for this—_anyone_—besides Alfred, who was sure he was physically staggering under the weight of his guilty conscience.

The worst aspect of it, though, was that he was merely guilty of falling in love. But society, and Arthur—funny, admirable Arthur—had deemed that to be one of the worst crimes ever to exist. And Alfred was already serving his sentence.

The Marquess trailed down the hall with a slow gait which anyone else would have deemed as majestic, but Alfred knew better. He was sulking. Was he masochistic to come back here after all of this? Had that really been business he had with the director, or was his mind merely drawn to the places it associated with that lively actor? The Marquess's heart was overcome with a pang of pain and longing as the ghost of a smiling Arthur manifested itself on the main staircase. He shook his head to clear it of such depressing illusions—and the pathetic hope that even Arthur's _ghost_ might love him back—and made his way out the door.

Alfred would have thought more on this, had he not been hailed by his nervous wreck of a driver the moment he stepped outside. Ever since that stern conversation three days ago, Thomas had lost his bright and confident personality around the Marquess. It was just another smile lost, Alfred lamented; just another thing for him to feel guilty about.

"Mister J-Jones, sir," Thomas murmured, approaching Alfred on his feet—highly unusual for the driver.

"Yes?" Alfred's voice was cold and flat, much like his expression. He tried to smile, be warm, approach Thomas like he used to, and this honestly was the result of his best efforts. The poor driver almost lost his nerve, which prompted Alfred to add, "Thomas, what is it?"

"Ah, sorry, sir." Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of messily folded paper. He held it forth to Alfred, who took it and read it as the driver explained, "Someone left it tucked into my seat as I was... err... distracted." Tom didn't particularly want to admit that he had been dozing off in the warm sunlight—something which he might have been able to joke about with Alfred before, but not anymore.

However, the Marquess was no longer listening. His eyes were intensely scanning the short message that was clutched tightly in his hand. It was a simple note, just telling Alfred to stop toying with the hearts of others, "you arrogant bastard." It sounded vaguely like a threat or a warning of sorts, with an implied "or else" attached, but Alfred had no idea whether or not that was just his overactive and paranoid imagination at work instead.

Alfred also had no idea from whom the message came, but it was enough to spring him into action, spurred by both anger and anxiety. The note was clearly referencing Elizabeth, and Alfred felt highly offended that someone would deem it his place to pry into Alfred's private business. And it terrified and worried him that that person would even know his private affairs in the first place. Only a few people knew the truth of Elizabeth's real whereabouts, and then there were some that had the capability of finding out the truth if they so desired.

Alfred knew of just one that might have been devious enough to do it.

"Thomas, to Le Château."

"But sir, you haven't been there in—"

"Le Château, Thomas." Alfred opened the carriage door himself, and mid-step in, he paused and added, "Please," as an afterthought.

In his rush, he often forgot to be nice to those in his employ, but such courtesies were important, especially now that he seemed to be driving everyone away with his temper, which had been on a childishly short fuse the past few days. Ever since Arthur's return home, Oswald had been silently simmering with worry, as Alfred either spent the day wasting away or so strongly devoted to work that he barely even took time to eat. Alfred was also driving Tino crazy with his insane and specific food requests, and poor Tori had had to face quite a few messes in the past few days as well, least of which was Alfred's occasional vomiting from his pathetic drunken nights. Giving Arthur the necessary space while feeling that their hearts were physically connected by a wire only a few inches in length was nigh impossible a task to do while intoxicated, let alone sober.

Alfred leapt into his carriage, attempting, like he had done countless times over the past few days, to becalm his heart and allay his anxieties. Sometimes he succeeded, though for only a few hours at most, and most of the time he failed miserably and either turned back to work or alcohol to do the job for him. Taking the easy way out was what Alfred did best.

The Marquess closed his eyes and took deep breaths as he felt the carriage pull away. He would take one thing at a time, and right now, it was time to pay a Frenchman a visit.

* * *

"Bonnefoy, I _know_ you are in there!"

Alfred rang the bell once again in the space of two seconds, highly impatient to get in and wring that Frenchman's neck. In that carriage ride, Alfred had had plenty of time to work himself up, stoking the fire under his irritation and suspicion until it was irrationally full blown anger. After three days of flailing about helplessly, it felt empowering and grand to finally do something "productive" once again, even if it was completely unfounded and out of proportion. Alfred had no proof yet that it was Francis who had written the note, but the script was flowing enough, and so was the anger in Alfred's blood. He just needed an excuse. He needed someone to blame for _something_, otherwise he would crack and collapse under the weight of the guilt on his shoulders alone.

—And Francis Bonnefoy was always the perfect target.

The door swung open to reveal Francis's perfectly groomed butler, Henri, who was halfway through uttering his standard greeting when his eyes registered who it was that was actually standing before him. In a moment of rare unprofessionalism, Henri stared, startled by Alfred's sudden—and unkempt—appearance. It had been a while since either had laid eyes on the other. People changed a lot in four years, and Alfred was no different (though he had to admit that the majority of those changes, aside from his height, had just occurred in the past few months thanks to a certain irresistible actor, for better or for worse).

"Henri," Alfred said, clearing his throat. He glanced down the hall past the butler, craning his neck to see if Francis would just magically appear in the corridor and make life easier. No such luck from Fate once again.

"Ah! Pardon, monsieur Jones." Henri regained his focus and bowed respectfully. "I am afraid zat Monsieur Bonnefoy did not mention—"

"I know he didn't. But I need to see him." Alfred was being rude, impatient and rash—three traits he hated very much in anybody, let alone himself. However, try as he might, he could not stop, for his mind was far too busy thinking about that note, which could have very well been something from any old scorned lover. Nevertheless, love tended to make one paranoid even about the simplest things, and even the simplest things could make one quite angry and agitated as well. If Francis actually was behind it—and Alfred didn't quite care for proof at the moment—then this would be the last day that perfect face would ever smile straight again. A large threat for a stupid, one line note, but Alfred was beyond caring.

"Monsieur Jones, 'e is beezee at ze moment. Perhaps—"

This was no time for decorum. Alfred pushed right past the startled butler and made his way down the hall. Henri called after him, but Alfred paid the man no mind. This was an atrocious break of manners, but there were many things Alfred wished to break at the moment, the foremost being Francis's perfect French nose. He needed no reason; it would just make him _feel_ better.

Alfred knew these halls almost as well as he knew those of the Jones Estate. And though he shuddered to remember why that was the case, for it had been four years since he had stepped foot in this vile place, the knowledge nevertheless came in handy. If Francis still kept to his old habits, then... Alfred checked his pocket watch. Three o'clock. On a Sunday.

Afternoon bath.

Alfred straightened his tie and made for the main bathroom. He tried to ignore the blush that was slowly overcoming his face, urging his mind to keep focused on the note, rather than the memories that Francis's master suite held. There were some things better left unremembered, and then there were the memories with Francis, which were better left burned to a crisp carcass.

"Francis!" Alfred called, slamming open the door to the grand bedroom on the second floor. The ornate door to the bath was across the room, on the other side of the canopy bed, just as Alfred remembered it. There was even still that little nick in the door from when Francis had slammed a letter opener into it, driven to do so out of pure passion—a terrible, wrathful passion that Alfred shuddered to remember.

When there was no reply, the Marquess shrugged off his jacket and hung it messily over the back of an armchair. He rolled his head around to stretch out the muscles in his neck. No cause, not even Elizabeth—and by extension, Arthur—could get Alfred to open that bathroom door. However, no cause except Arthur would have gotten him even this far in the first place.

Rolling up his sleeves, Alfred trudged up to the door and knocked. It felt like a ridiculously polite action, highly incongruous with Alfred's inner desire to accuse Francis of every crime ever committed on the planet Earth.

"Francis Bonnefoy! Get yourself out here!"

There was a splash from within, followed by a genuinely surprised, "Alfred?"

The Marquess rolled his eyes. Considering their history, and how many times they had called each other's names from opposing sides of the door in the past, there was absolutely no way Francis could have mistaken it for anyone else.

"No, it's your bloody mother. Now get out here!"

There were a few more splashes, then the soft patter of footsteps. Alfred stepped back from the door and turned around, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. He knew exactly what would happen next.

The moment the door opened, Alfred grumbled, "Clothes first. And robes are unacceptable."

The Marquess could hear the playful pout on Francis's face as he replied, "Why, Alfred? You have never complained before." The ambassador placed a gentle hand on Alfred's shoulder, and it was all the Marquess could do to not slap it away, or throw in a punch as well for good measure. He did, however, step forward to be once again out of reach.

"I am in no mood for your games, Bonnefoy. Clothes. Now."

Francis chuckled. "Are you sure?" His eyebrows wiggled suggestively, something which Alfred knew was happening, despite being unable to see it. After years of knowing one another, these instinctive things just generally happened. "You've always been in ze _mood_ before, Alfred." The Marquess could hear the wink. "My bedroom tends to have zat affect on people." Alfred bit back his sarcastic remark—something about baby blue definitely being seductive—and refrained from saying anything else once he heard Francis make a move for his closet.

"So what brings you to my humble abode?"

"I'd hardly call it 'humble,'" Alfred muttered darkly, thinking of the fact that it was called "Le Château," after all. His back was still turned as he heard the ruffling of clothes behind him. It had been a while since Alfred had heard that noise in this room, but he could still guess almost every article of clothing that was being donned, and could likely predict the order as well.

That wasn't a fact that he was proud of.

"I received a note," Alfred replied simply, hoping that there would be some surprise on Francis's part that would reveal some proof of guilt. Alfred wouldn't even have to look to see if it was there; he'd know, simply because it was Francis.

However, the Marquess's hope was in vain, for politicians were often even better actors—_liars_—than aristocrats. And if a person fell into both categories, like Francis, they were utterly lethal in their skills of deception.

Thus, it was with a completely passive voice that Francis replied, "And zat has a connection to moi?"

Alfred was getting nervous; he didn't like having his back turned to the enemy, but he absolutely hated the idea of seeing Francis's naked form even more—mostly because he knew he was still attracted to the man, despite his highly clashing emotional inclinations. That was how he knew he truly loved Arthur: both Alfred's heart and his body agreed wholeheartedly on every account there, unlike it didn't with anybody else.

The Marquess waited until he heard the sound of Francis's removable collar attaching to his shirt to reply. "Don't pretend that you don't know. There is no point in acting innocent with me, Francis."

Francis chuckled and moved to stand in front of the mirror, which was still behind Alfred. "Zat's ze trouble with us 'high class' citizens, is it not? No one can ever tell ze truths from ze lies." Quick as lightning, the ambassador turned around and snaked his arms around Alfred's waist. "So tell me, does zis haff to do with Elizabeth"—Francis's voice lowered to a hair raising whisper—"mon chéri?"

Alfred stiffened, and for a moment, everything was completely still. Then Alfred whipped around in the span of half a second, fist flying in the air. Before he knew it, his knuckles were colliding with the underside of Francis's chin.

The Frenchman recoiled, letting out a grunt—but not a yell, much to his credit. His hands cupped his chin as he stared in surprise at Alfred, who was also staring, but at his own hands with incredulity. Although the both of them had manifestations of physical pain to prove that the blow had actually been dealt, it took a moment before it completely registered in either of their minds.

Francis was the first to recover. "I see you want things rough today," he joked, his voice light, though Alfred could hear the scathing undertones well enough. The Frenchman valued his face more than he did his collection Wedgwood china.

The Marquess looked up, mouth agape, a regretful expression on his countenance. Although he had come here with kicks and punches in mind, those thoughts had been inspired by a highly irrational anger. And now that he had actually carried out the deed, all that ferocity quickly dissipated, to be replaced by only remorse.

In truth, Alfred hated violence. He refrained from it at all costs, simply because it was pointless. No good feelings or good results ever came from warfare. Thus, this instinctive punch had been a first—though it seemed that between Arthur and Francis, the pair covered the vast majority of all of Alfred's "firsts." His first word and first steps were probably the only ones left sacred to Alfred alone.

The Marquess would usually never think to apologize to Francis, but this was completely worth the trouble. "Francis, I—"

"You're stronger than I remembered," Francis interrupted, actively dismissing the apology. Despite their enmity, Francis and Alfred knew each other very well, and thus, Francis knew how much Alfred would hate to apologize at the moment, given his evident anger earlier. And although Francis appreciated the effort, he still knew he'd feel a great amount of humiliation if he had to do the same, and no matter how much he disliked Alfred (or vice versa), he wouldn't wish that on a person so... respected. They both still held a special place in each other's hearts, even after all these years. This relationship had to have been quite high flying, after all, in order to have fallen so hard.

"Jokes aside, Francis, I'm really—"

"—A wild stallion today," Francis finished with a smile. "I can see zat, mon chéri."

They shared a weighted look for a moment before Alfred finally turned away in grim understanding. Francis was forgiving him. It was in moments like this that Alfred found it the hardest to hate the man that once was his best friend—the only best friend he had ever possessed. And there was a good reason why Alfred had never had a best friend since. The Earl, Charles Brentford, didn't even come close to comparing with what this relationship had been, once upon a time.

"Well," Francis moved on, "zat was a pleasant surprise." He chuckled lightly. "No matter." The ambassador waved one hand dismissively while the other still caressed his blazing red chin. He flexed his jaw and moved it around; luckily, nothing seemed to be broken.

"You can, however," Francis continued, "tell me why I am going to haff to sport zis wound as a fashion statement for the next fortnight."

Francis's gaze was lethal steel, despite his light tone. Even if he had forgiven Alfred in words, it was only because of their deep and complicated history. Harming Francis's treasured face was an act not to be taken lightly, and had it been anyone else, Francis would not only have fought back, but he would have challenged the man to a good old fashioned duel, as well—and Francis Bonnefoy rarely missed with his pistol.

Alfred cleared his throat and straightened up, thankful for the reprieve Francis had granted him. Little surprises like that were rare in this relationship, and when they came, from either direction, both of them simply took it wordlessly in stride. Showing gratitude, or acknowledging it in any way, would ruin the effect. They were supposed to be deep rooted enemies, after all, and in general, they acted like ruthless bastards toward one another quite well.

"Might we adjourn to your office? This matter needs a more... honest setting." Nothing sincere ever occurred in Francis's bedroom, Alfred had learned. The hard way.

The Frenchman chuckled. "You've made zat clear enough." If he took offense at that comment, he didn't show it. The two of them had thrown much worse at each other before.

"Your wish is my command, Alfred." Francis made his way to the door. "As always."

"Don't make lying a habit, Francis," Alfred replied gravely, following right after.

* * *

"You received a letter, you said? From whom?" Francis was standing by the window, a glass of wine in hand. It was from his own vineyard in Burgundy, and in his biased opinion, it was the best wine to have ever existed.

"I do not know," Alfred replied, sporting a glass of lemonade himself. He had vowed never to drink Francis's regrettably fantastic wine ever again. "It came to me while I was taking care of business at the playhouse earlier today."

"What does it say?"

Alfred raised one questioning eyebrow in the ambassador's direction. "I would bet my fortune and then some that you could guess. In fact, you already have."

Francis chuckled, a deep and hollow sound. "Elizabeth, oui? What was it, zen? A threat on her sweet virtue?"

Alfred glared at the Frenchman, who flashed him an apologetic smile that meant he was not remorseful whatsoever.

"I asked for somewhere to talk about this seriously, Francis."

Francis smirked. "No, you merely asked for a place of honesty."

Alfred's gaze turned into a challenge. "And do you honestly believe that it was a threat to her purity?"

The ambassador's eyes shone with smug triumph. "So you admit it's about Elizabeth."

Alfred swore under his breath. Between them, it was always about who could weasel out more information than he gave in return, and so far, Francis was up on the score.

The battle was not yet over, though. Alfred tried his best to recover his position. "I already said you had mentioned it," he intoned, taking a careful sip of his lemonade and swishing it around to taste for poison or some other adulteration. One could never be too careful. "And if you are behind this—which I am quite sure you are—then you would already know."

"Ah, mon chéri, you give me too much credit." He tipped his glass in Alfred's direction. "I am _not_ ze mastermind behind whatever farce of a letter you received. You forget zat I am as interested in Elizabeth as you are." Francis's eyes narrowed as he turned to face Alfred. "She's really not ill, is she?"

"Why would you think that?" Alfred watched the Frenchman carefully as he took another small sip of his drink.

"Because I already know, Alfred. You would be with her now if you could get to her..." Francis's lips curled into a smug smile. "But you can't." He took a sip of his wine and absentmindedly tapped on the windowsill. "The question is—why?"

Alfred frowned. "You know nothing."

Francis stared at the Marquess for a moment before bursting out in full raucous laughter. He set down his wine glass in order to have a free hands to clutch his stomach, so much was he shaking with mirth. Alfred glared darkly at the ambassador and waited impatiently until the man had calmed down.

Francis wiped a tear from his eyes. "Ah, I've forgotten how much you can joke, mon chéri," he murmured. "But _you_," Francis said, gesturing pointedly at Alfred, "have forgotten as well." His eyes twinkled. "You've forgotten zat I can read you like a children's book."

Alfred's frowned deepened. His mind held a speedy war over whether or not to concede and move forward, or to refuse and run the risk of looking foolish in the future. He decided quickly, and with a carefully controlled expression, Alfred raised an eyebrow in Francis's direction.

"A children's book written in Chinese," he corrected blandly. Alfred would give nothing away.

Francis chuckled, then turned to look back out the window. He sighed, and his expression turned quite serious for a moment as he spoke, "Really, zough, Alfred. I don't haff anything to do with it."

The only reason he was even entertaining the idea of seriousness was because he was worried as well. Francis was after Elizabeth just the same, for she was his grand prize—for a variety of reasons. He had a slow plan of conquest worked out in his mind, but it seemed like things were evolving, especially with this odd letter and Alfred's avid concern. It was the Marquess's passion for the issue that was more troubling, actually. Francis knew quite well just how strong the half-American's heart could be, and if such strength was directed toward Elizabeth, Francis would no doubt soon be facing many obstacles in his plan for success. Maybe his plans needed changing, but further research was necessary before a final conclusion was reached.

"Why are you so concerned, anyway?" Francis tried to keep his tone light, a small curious smile plastered on his face despite the fact that he was really trying to test the waters of his competition—and confirm a few of his theories as well.

Alfred looked at Francis as if he had just declared that baguettes were the most vile substance on earth. "Have I not made it obvious enough that I am in love with her? If there is to be any threat to her because of me, should I not be worried?"

Francis glanced over and assessed the Marquess for a moment before commenting, in a deadpan voice, "You kissed, didn't you?"

The blush on Alfred's face gave him away, despite the fact that he tried his best to deny it. A torrent of emotions came rushing back in the wake of Francis's comment, and before Alfred even knew it, the weight of his crushing depression was upon him once again. There was no point in lying now, especially as he could see Francis register all the emotions that flew freely across his temporarily defenseless visage.

Slamming his fist down on the table and almost knocking over his lemonade, Alfred swore. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Yes, we did," he admitted, averting his eyes to the wall. It would have been an opportune moment to gloat, and Alfred would have, had it been any other situation. But this was not a time to be giving away personal information like this, especially to someone so untrustworthy as this ambassador before him. It just wasn't how the game worked.

Francis's his lips were set into a thin line as he gazed out the window at his perfectly cut garden. He betrayed nothing in his expression, but Alfred could almost see the cogs in that deceptive mind working away. The Marquess opened his mouth to say something, if only to stop that devilish brain from accomplishing its tasks, but Francis beat him to it.

"You know, Alfred, I've never seen you so focused on a woman before."

Alfred's eyes narrowed. Francis was definitely reaching for something, but Alfred wasn't quite sure what it was. There was absolutely now way that he would know of their plans of deception, after all. Arthur was a flawless actor—much like everything else about him was flawless in Alfred's eye. There would have been no suspicious mistake, no careless slip-up. So what was Francis getting at by that statement?

"People change just as times do, Francis," Alfred replied, leaning back in his chair. He yawned used the fingers of his palm to cover his eyes, just in case Francis would choose to look in his direction at that moment and see that he was clearly lying.

Luckily, the Frenchman kept his gaze directed out the window. "I have never known you to shift with any time," he murmured, chuckling a little. It was a sad and lonely sound, and it reverberated around the room, filling it with the pang of regret.

"There is a lot you don't know about me," Alfred said, letting his shoulders droop.

"And there's a lot I will never know."

Silence swelled into the room. Alfred could hear his own heart beat as he tried to keep his mind focused on Elizabeth and Arthur, but it was already falling back into memories of the past, long, long ago. This was always a danger to be feared in private conversations with Francis; the man had a way of changing the mood and the subject so subtly yet so quickly that it was nigh impossible to counteract.

"Right," Alfred muttered, wondering where all of their enmity had gone. He hated Francis, for sure. And the ambassador hated him just as well. But in addition to that vehement emotion, there were many others that were long forgotten and buried, and the dead always ran a risk of rising once again. But this was one undead that Alfred did not want back in his life at any cost.

Sitting up again, the Marquess cleared his throat. He would cleanly change the subject. "You really mean that you know nothing about it?"

In a rare moment, Francis looked over and replied with complete honesty, "Oui."

Alfred believed him. He had only ever seen that honesty a few times before, one of which was the last time he had stepped foot in this house. And that painful sincerity had been the reason Alfred had come running back out the door just as quickly as he had come, tears mixing with the pouring rain, vowing to never love again. Though apparently, Alfred really _was_ changing with the times. He did love again. What a novel idea.

"Then I have no further business here," the Marquess intoned. He stood up and donned his jacket, which he had carried over from the other room. He turned and made his way to the door. "Would it even be worth it to ask you to leave Elizabeth alone?"

Francis set down his wine glass. "It would be as worth it as me asking you to truly love her."

Alfred paused at the doorframe. "What's that supposed to mean?" He turned to stare long and hard at the ambassador, his eyes a piercing, almost glowing, blue. "I already do."

The Frenchman chuckled and set about idly rearranging a few papers on his desk. He didn't look up as he spoke, "I have never known you to love a woman."

The Marquess's eyes narrowed. Slowly, and with great suspicion, he replied, "And I have never known you to do so either. Seriously, at least. And yet, here you are, in avid pursuit." The silence hung between them like stale, unbreathable air for a moment, before Francis looked up and smiled.

"Oui. So it seems."

Alfred stared for a little bit longer before he ducked out the door and made his way down the hall. If Francis could change, then so could he, right? If Alfred had waited a little longer, could he have fallen for a true lady, rather than devise such a ridiculous scheme to bypass that instead?

The Marquess shook his head as he stepped out the front door, aided by a nervous looking Henri. If he hadn't had this crazy idea to begin with, then he likely would have never met Arthur. And no matter how much pain it caused him, the Marquess couldn't imagine a life now without that actor. That idea was like the idea of Alfred falling in love with a woman.

That is to say, it was unthinkable.

* * *

It was four days after Arthur had left, and Alfred was beginning to get worried. Francis's words had been circling around his mind, like a hawk, waiting for its prey to appear just so it could snatch the poor creature up before it even had a clue as to what was happening. The Marquess felt constantly on edge, sure that there was something he had missed in the ambassador's words. There was always some double, perhaps even triple, meaning with Francis, and it weighed on Alfred's mind that he couldn't quite grasp what that was this time around.

Unfortunately, the Marquess never had time to dwell too much on the matter anyway, considering he still was in the habit of throwing himself into work in order to escape the aches of his heart and the guilt on his conscience. Society could wait, considering that they would most likely believe him to be constantly by Elizabeth's bedside, comforting her in her ailment. Little did they know that it was Alfred who needed comfort instead, for surely, Arthur was happy now.

Right?

Nights were the toughest for Alfred, for that was when he had the most amount of time to think about his wonderful actor. The Marquess's mind generally revolved around thinking about Arthur in the present, and despite his own pains and suffering, he still thought about Arthur above everything else. The ideas ranged from large, overarching questions, such as wondering whether or not Arthur felt satisfied with his life at the moment, to small, silly things, such as wondering what Arthur was eating for dinner. What was his family like? Did he have any siblings? Did his house have as good raspberry jam as Alfred's manor did? Alfred would then often smile, unable to help himself, remembering a moment or two that was brought up by his thoughts, like the one time Arthur had gotten a small glob of said jam on his nose, and had left it unnoticed for almost ten minutes as he spoke. Alfred had been enjoying himself a bit too much to mention it, for it had simply been far too adorable a moment to ruin.

Almost unfailingly, the last thoughts the Marquess had were generally about the kiss. Whenever his mind landed upon the subject, his mouth would tingle once again, and he would taste the sweet saltiness of the scones, made all the more delicious by their location on Arthur's delectably full lips. It had taken him some time to reconcile that fact, but this memory was now a good one. A very good one. And Alfred would not have traded it for the world, even if he could be happy and guiltless once more. If there was one thing he'd learnt from past experience, it was that love made you a masochist. There was no better way to describe this feeling of being hopelessly attached to people who would undoubtedly hold you down and break you someday.

Alfred just never guessed that the person who would do that to him again, after all these years, would be someone with such a warm smile and bright eyes. Fate was quite a cruel bastard.

Rolling over, the Marquess rubbed at his eyes. He needed sleep, for sure, but he just wasn't quite sure how to attain it. There was so much to think about, from his own feelings, to society's view of him, to Arthur's view of him, to Francis's words, to that odd note—and it was all converging on his mind at the moment. It was a miracle that Alfred didn't suffer from a constant headache these past few days, especially as he worked to unravel the mystery that was that message. He didn't quite care who had written it, exactly. He was more worried over the content, because it confused him.

Alfred was playing with nobody's heart, as far as he could tell. Arthur was playing with his, but it was by no means the actor's fault that he was so frustratingly beguiling. It was just the way the bones had landed, and now they were forcibly caught up in an unfortunate situation. Arthur could not help his religion and personal beliefs as much as Alfred could not help his feelings of longing and desire.

Although that didn't stop the Marquess from worrying, however. What if Arthur really did think he had been toying? Alfred had vowed never to tease Arthur again after that regrettable incident in the garden, and he thought he had been doing quite well with keeping to his word.

The Marquess gnawed at his bottom lip. Now that that thought had arose, it would not leave him alone. Could this have been just a misunderstanding? Well, that was far too simple a word for it, but was there something Alfred could actually fix here, perhaps through an explanation? Maybe if he got on his knees, apologized profusely, admitted to every wrong known to mankind, and then brought a consolation jar of raspberry jam with him for good measure—maybe then, Arthur would begin to forgive him?

Because life was becoming more and more unbearable without Arthur's grumpiness to greet him each day, and Alfred was quite ready to do almost anything to get his actor back, if only just to yell at him more. This new idea of an apology might just make him look more foolish, but Alfred was beyond the point of caring for his pride. He just wanted Arthur to stop hating him—and dared he even wish that some day, the actor would smile at him once again?

Alfred closed his eyes and made a mental note to clear his schedule tomorrow. He was going to go—probably quite foolishly—to Hertfordshire.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Alfred, Arthur had also lain on his bed, devoid of sleep, for the past few nights. Every time he attempted to attain some rest, his body would be racked with spasms, and he'd break out in cold sweat. Only a breath of fresh air and a walk around the farm would come close to comforting him then. Thus, Arthur had learned to make do with very minimal sleep over the past few days, as he tried to work as much as possible to distract himself from the insanity that was his life.

When he had first arrived home, Arthur's parents had greeted him with great enthusiasm, and his brother had launched into an endless torrent of questions about life in London. Arthur, ever the actor, managed to tell them that everything was still the same. He had found a good acting job that paid quite handsomely—though it was funny how nobody involved in this grand scheme seemed to be thinking about the money anymore. His family was overjoyed to hear the news, and Jane proceeded to cook all of Arthur's favorite dishes that night in exchange for more of his stories. Arthur obliged them as best as he could, though he conveniently left out the fact that he was working for a Marquess, and that he had quit acting school as well, both of which would lead to questions which Arthur couldn't afford to think about at the moment.

It had taken them only one day to get reacquainted with his presence around the house, and soon enough, Arthur was back on garden duty. He was glad for the work, since it seemed like the garden had fallen to ruin since he had last left. Jane never had time to take care of it, Peter thought that gardening was the most dull task to ever exist, and James (Arthur's father) couldn't tell the difference between a lily and a bluebell. Thus, there was always a lot of work to be done, and it allowed him the chance to keep his mind off of more worrying matters.

Arthur was not so lucky during the nighttime, however, when there was nothing but the moonlight to distract him from his aching heart. It had taken him two nights of tossing and turning to accept that yes, he was jealous. He was woefully jealous of Elizabeth for having received that kiss from Alfred, and that thought terrified the actor more than any monster ever could. Arthur _wanted_ Alfred's kisses, and even while he went about his daily life back at home, he found that his fingers often wandered absentmindedly to his lips, tracing the parts that had touched Alfred's own. He could still taste the sweetness, and he blushed whenever he caught a ghost of Alfred's intoxicating scent as he moved around the house. His mind had quite an active imagination, which Arthur never regretted until now.

Along with this new realization that he was unavoidably and undeniably jealous, came a torrent of passionate and valiant attempts to logically counteract it. Arthur read the important Bible passages over and over well into the night, hoping that the might of God's words would burn away the sickness that was eating at his soul. It was torture, and Arthur's whole body often ached from the pain of his impure thoughts and lascivious desires. Lying with another man might have been the true sin, but somehow, these emotions felt so much more taboo than mere sexual intercourse ever could. Physical and emotional ideas needed to be separate, and when they merged together into a confusing, jumbled mess as they were doing now, Arthur felt like the Devil himself was invading and scrambling up his life.

A devil with remarkably blue eyes.

Arthur's knack for self-honesty made it difficult for him to deny that there was something emotionally connective to be had amidst the quickly fading anger that he felt toward Alfred. It wasn't the Marquess's fault, after all, for it had been perfectly within the realm of his acting to flirt with Elizabeth, to enrapture Elizabeth, and to kiss Elizabeth. And once Arthur had had enough time to himself, all of his anger and hatred was once again flipped around, turning into feelings he directed at himself.

It was disgusting, but it was impossible to deny that he felt something special for Alfred. It was different than what he felt for his family, or for his classmates at school, or for his friends at the playhouse. He didn't quite know what it was, but it felt so perfect yet so wrong at the same time. It was a desire to not only undress Alfred from his clothes, but to also peel away the man's countless layers of careful guard until Arthur could reach his soul. It was a wicked idea that thoroughly frightened Arthur, so pure and so good had he been up until this point.

Did he regret agreeing to Alfred's scheme in the first place? Arthur was so sure that his answer would have been a resounding "of course," and thus, it surprised him when he honestly could not decide. On the one hand, the sanctity of his soul was at stake, and if that didn't alarm a devout Anglican, then Arthur didn't know what would. Such dangers would have been avoided had he decided to keep to his simple life all those months ago.

However, he also would never have met Alfred, and that thought was almost as painful as the idea of Arthur being eternally damned for thinking things he seemed to be unable to avoid. Over the course of their relationship, the man had somehow latched onto Arthur's heart and gnawed at it until Arthur finally gave him some much needed attention in his thoughts—like he was doing now. If Arthur had never accepted the job, he would have undoubtedly continued his life with a strong hatred of the nobility, never knowing that there were people like Alfred, people who were actually... kind.

The actor had learned that Alfred didn't value money like everyone else, even if he was blind to those observations until quite recently. There were hints here and there, such as the bareness of Alfred's private rooms at the main manor, to where they had retired after Arthur had been caught snooping during the Duke's visit. The drapes had been white, and so had the walls. There had been only a few pictures and very sparse decor, and it had startled the actor at first to see. Just like the manor, there were different aspects to the Marquess that Arthur had gradually uncovered over time, and with each new development, he grew to love—

He grew to _like_ Alfred all the more.

Right.

Arthur tossed an arm over his eyes, letting out a low groan. He wouldn't even entertain the idea of what he just thought. That was utterly preposterous, and as such, it would be banished away, like so many other ridiculous things that unfailingly came hand in hand with the image of Alfred F. Jones.

Arthur had thought often about going back, about apologizing for his hot-headedness, about making amends, about Alfred's smile. Why was it that every time Arthur wished to make that smile happen, he always ended up causing Alfred tears or pain instead? He hadn't meant to yell back then, right after the kiss. It had just... happened. And before he knew it, he was already on his way home.

No one seemed to bring out his anger in its full colors like Alfred could, and it was irritating because Arthur wished very much that that wasn't the case. He wanted to be friends with the Marquess, he wanted them to have a normal, working partnership, but Fate kept intervening. Arthur's anger had never been a problem with anyone else until Alfred had come along, at which point God thought it funny to make him three times more liable to set off than usual. It was cruel, but over the past months, Arthur had started to wonder whether or not his God was merely the Devil in disguise.

Because what sort of lover of the people would make Arthur hurt so? Who would write in that cursed book dubbed The Holy Bible that what Arthur was experiencing was not acceptable? That he was abnormal? Arthur didn't like being out of the ordinary in that ostracized sense, and if his God didn't support him as he changed, then perhaps... then perhaps Arthur wouldn't support Him either.

Good Lord. Was that even possible?

The actor slammed his fist angrily into his pillow, not caring if the muffled noise would wake anyone else up. He was petrified, and he shook with anxiety and terror. How could he even have thought that, for even one moment? Was Alfred really that important? And—Lord help him (the irony)—why was he still entertaining the possibility, despite having already realized its absurdity?

Arthur buried his face in his pillow as tears began to stream down his cheeks, his body trembling from the sudden chill of the summer night. Curling into his blanket, Arthur tried to make himself as small as possible, in the hope that he would go unnoticed by God for his blasphemy. For this was sheer insanity. All of it. Everything, from Alfred's riveting body, to his multi-layered, sweet personality, to Arthur and his double-crossing thoughts—it was all preposterous. And it all made Arthur cry, from frustration to fear to all the emotions in between.

As he wept, the young actor muttered prayers under his breath. He asked for absolution, he asked for grace, and he asked for the guidance of logic. Although, above all, he asked over and over again for forgiveness. Just forgiveness.

Because despite it all, Arthur was still seriously contemplating the idea of ending his relationship with God in favor of his relationship with Alfred. And surely, that was the craziest thing he had ever done.

* * *

Arthur looked up from washing dishes when there was a knock at the front door. His mother was busy kneading some pastry dough, and his brother and father were both out in the farm, so he rinsed his hands of soap and went to the door himself—which he promptly slammed shut once again the moment he opened it.

"Who is it, Arthur?" his mother questioned from the side door to the kitchen. The actor was still too shocked to answer, though, which prompted Jane to wash her own hands and investigate the guest herself.

"Was it the post?" she glanced at Arthur's empty hands questioningly, and her eyebrows creased even further when there was a knock at the door one again.

Jane reached for the knob, and Arthur put out a hand to stop her, but he already too late. The wooden door swung open to reveal Alfred F. Jones, Marquess of Devonshire, currently dressed as an average citizen. His hair was mussed, his shirt collar hung open, and his pants were smudged with soot. How Alfred had gotten that way, Arthur did not know. But he did know, however, that it _was_ Alfred, despite the disguise, and that was the last person he wanted to see at the moment.

Jane's eyes widened. "Mar—" she started, but Alfred cut her off.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am," he murmured in middle-class English, completely ignorant of what she had been about to say. With an apologetic expression on his face, Alfred continued, "I'm one of Arthur's frie—"

"Boss," the actor interrupted, pulling himself out of his stupor. After his atrocious experiences these past few nights, Arthur wouldn't even allow Alfred to call himself a friend—because Alfred was so much _more_ than a friend, and spikes of pain shot through Arthur whenever he thought about the fact that he _knew_ that to be the case now. Long hours during nights of reflection by an honest soul tended to reveal many truths, most of which were probably better left hidden. And now, whenever that amicable term was used, Arthur was only reminded of his sacrilegious ways and his failures as an Anglican. He couldn't handle such pain well on his own, let alone in the presence of his mother.

Alfred's expression faltered ever so slightly, but only Arthur, who had watched him so closely at every opportunity during these past few months, could notice. And just as quickly as it had gone, a light smile was back on Alfred's face, and his hand was extended toward Jane.

"I'm his boss," Alfred corrected. "But we're close."

Jane daintily shook Alfred's hand, a confused expression still on her face, because she_ knew_ who this was. There was no way she could mistake those bright eyes, that warm smile, and that eager, youthful expression. It was undoubtedly Catherine Harrington's son, so much older than she had remembered him from years and years ago.

The woman took a quick glance at her own son, who seemed to be staring quite intently at the ground, and decided that it was best she just played along. Arthur might have been odd in his ways, but he always had a good reason for his actions. And it would have been quite a pleasant coincidence anyways if Arthur really was in Alfred's employ. What a fortunate turn of events.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Jane murmured, curtsying. "I am afraid that Arthur has not mentioned your name, Mr..."

"I'm... ah..." Once again, Alfred's mind had been to preoccupied with his countless other worries to fully think through his current plan.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy," Arthur supplied, unable to help himself. "Like the book. William, for short."

Considering all the literature they had in common, this would be like a nice private joke. And no matter how much he hated life, hated himself, and hated his religion, or how much he wanted to kick Alfred out and return him to the high-brow hellhole whence he came, Arthur was rarely without a sense of humor when he was around the Marquess. Something about the man just made him feel better, even though it also made him feel worse at the same time. It was an odd dynamic, and no matter what the reasons were, above all, Arthur realized he had missed Alfred these past few days.

Just a little, of course.

Alfred's eyes widened, clearly in disbelief that Arthur would be able to joke at a time like this as he tried not to laugh at the content of the actual joke. His treasured actor was always full of surprises. It was an aspect Alfred had come to love quite a lot, and so, he took the suggestion in stride.

Running a hand through his hair sheepishly, Alfred even had the grace to blush as well. "My mother is a great fan of Austen's works," he explained. Arthur averted his eyes, unable to look at those rivetingly flushed cheeks because he suddenly had the odd urge to nibble at them. And _that_ was alarming.

Jane smiled. "Pleased to meet you, then, Mr. Darcy." She stifled a laugh. Alfred was still as nonsensical as he had been as a child, and apparently, the Marquess had affected Arthur as well in that stead. What a wonderful turn of events that these two should meet again after all of these years, Jane reflected. It had been over a decade and a half since she had last seen Alfred, and thus, it was no surprise that he didn't seem to recognize her anymore. She couldn't help but wonder, however, whether or not the boys were aware that they also knew each other as well.

"Call me William, please," Alfred corrected with a smile.

"William it is. I'm Jane. Jane Kirkland. Please, come in."

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, his eyes widening in alarm, but it was already too late. Alfred was already inside the house and was in the process of taking off his shoes by the time Arthur could even utter a sound.

"Something smells nice," the Marquess commented, sniffing the air.

"Artie was just helping me bake, weren't you Artie?"

The actor stiffened, and Alfred could have sworn that Arthur was bright red from the tips of ears all the way down to his toes. Whatever compunctions and worries Alfred had felt on the carriage ride over (he had left the carriage a ways away and had walked the rest on foot) disappeared the moment he saw Arthur once again. Despite the pains, the guilt, and the suffering, was it bad that Alfred knew he would have been forever content had he simply been allowed to embrace Arthur then and there?

"I was washing the dishes," Arthur corrected, rolling up his sleeves and pushing past Alfred to return to his duties. Alfred watched him go, temporarily forgetting his other shoe. His fingers still tingled with a desire to run them through Arthur's undoubtedly soft hair, and his heart ached as Alfred realized he tended to see much more of Arthur's retreating back than any other aspect of the actor. Well, any view of Arthur was better than no view at all, Alfred amended. He had learned that dearly over the past few days.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Jane asked, as she accompanied Alfred into the kitchen after the Marquess had wiggled off his other shoe.

"A glass of milk would be wonderful, Mrs. Kirkland, if that is not too much to ask." Arthur's mother nodded and proceeded to prepare a glass. She smiled, proud of the fact that Alfred had grown up to be so polite, even though the Marquess was not her own child. But she had a soft spot for Alfred just the same, and it warmed her heart to see that, despite all of these years, the boy had not lost his spark.

Or so she thought.

Arthur had retreated back to the bucket of water in the corner once again, and was valiantly trying to fight the urge to glance over in Alfred's direction. The Marquess, on the other hand, was openly watching Arthur's slim back as the actor's muscles flexed under his white shirt. Who knew that washing dishes could be so seductive?

Alfred appreciated this small moment just to stare, for it allowed him some time to think upon matters other than the large one that loomed over the both of their heads like an impending tempest. The rain would have to fall eventually, but maybe not just yet.

"So, William," Jane murmured, handing him the glass of milk. "If I may, might I ask why you have come all the way out here from London?"

Alfred took a sip of the lukewarm drink. He was liking Arthur's mother already, for she was a confident woman, sure of herself and unafraid to speak her mind. Why couldn't more women be less demure and pathetic and be more like her? They would be so much more agreeable if they just spoke more, in Alfred's opinion. That's why he was already taking to Jane Kirkland, despite only knowing for barley five minutes.

It was also quite nice to see where Arthur got some of his gentler traits, foremost of which being the greenness of his eyes. Jane's eyes were practically shining—though not as enchantingly as Arthur's. Nothing could ever compare to anything of Arthur's.

"I merely wished to see how Arthur was doing," Alfred replied, not technically lying. "His job is quite important, you see, and I should like him back as soon as possible." The Marquess sat up, realizing how his words could have been misunderstood. "That is not to say that I mean to cut important family time short, however," he quickly corrected.

Jane merely laughed, a bright, bell-like giggle, and then turned back to her dough—the second piece, for the first one was already cut and in the iron stove.

"Isn't that sweet, Arthur? Your boss is so kind." She was too busy looking at the dough to notice Arthur's suddenly stiff, mechanical movements and deep crimson cheeks. Alfred, on the other hand, didn't miss a thing, and he couldn't help the smallest chuckle of amusement. Arthur really was quite adorable.

"Can I help with anything?" the Marquess asked. Jane glanced up, surprised. No matter what game it was that the two boys—for they would always be boys to her—were playing, she would _never_ be able to make a Marquess work.

"Don't worry your—"

"You could go weed the garden," Arthur interrupted, his flustered grumpiness making him vindictive once again.

"Arthur!" Jane shot her son a reprimanding look. "That is no way to speak to your employer! Apologize this instant."

Arthur paused his washing, almost done with all of his dishes, and turned around. He swallowed, then brought his eyes up to meet Alfred's, which were staring back at him with a mix of amusement and bemusement. Arthur tried to harden his gaze, to make it look confident and terrifying, rather than longing and lustful. He wasn't sure what it was that he ended up doing, but Alfred's gaze quickly became alarmed and depressed all at once.

"But we're more like..." Did he have to use the word? "... friends," Arthur murmured, sounding quite scathing as he searched Alfred's gaze. "Good friends. Isn't that right, Will?"

Alfred didn't know whether or not this was some trap. Was Arthur really saying that they were still friends despite all of this? The Marquess hoped to God that was the case (though God had stopped listening to his pleas long ago. Something about sodomy).

"Yes," Alfred replied tentatively, trying to keep his voice even, his gaze still riveted on Arthur's. The magic of the moment was broken when Alfred finally tore his eyes away and turned back to Jane. "I would love to help," he added, standing up. "Don't worry."

Jane was appalled at the thought of dirtying a nobleman's hands for such menial tasks, and she was petrified that Arthur's manners seemed to have disappeared entirely, but she could not argue much further without revealing her deeper knowledge. Thus, the least she could do was at least make sure Alfred had some company.

"Arthur, dear, why don't you assist him as well?"

The actor almost dropped the plate he was drying, the last one of the dishes that needed cleaning. He could feel Alfred's eyes watching him carefully, judging his every reaction. Arthur swallowed, knowing he couldn't refuse without angering his mother or hurting Alfred—neither of which he wished to do, even if he very much _wanted_ to want to hurt Alfred. That would have made life a lot easier.

Setting down the dish, the actor wordlessly walked toward the door that would lead to their little yard, assuming, correctly, that Alfred would naturally follow. The Marquess rounded the table and set after the temperamental actor as Jane called after them to say that she would have a wonderful snack prepared for them upon their return. The lady then returned to her dough, chuckling as she shook her head in vague disapproval, a small smile playing on her lips.

Those boys. Who would have thought that they would meet again after so many years apart?

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Arthur hissed, pulling at a weed with much more force than usual. Alfred was kneeling next to him, doing the same action, but with much less finesse and grace. He looked like he was strangling a snake made of weed more than anything else—and the weed was currently winning.

"As I said, I came to check on you," Alfred murmured softly, his eyes fixed on the task at hand. Could Arthur hear how sorry he was? "Look, Arthur, I—"

"Are you here to ask me to come back?" The actor prodded at a patch of dirt, checking the firmness. His eyes never strayed from where his hands were, although he very much desired for his hands themselves to be somewhere else entirely.

Alfred grimaced and yanked at a few tufts before replying softly, "Do you want to come back?"

"What if I don't?"

Alfred stiffened. He had feared that that would be the case, and he had thought about the anguishing matter for days, running through various scenarios in which he would have to leave Arthur alone for the rest of his life. Was that even possible? Could he stay away?

The fact was that he couldn't. He really was sure that such a task was impossible, but ever since last night, he was also sure what his answer would be if the question was brought up.

"Then you can stay," Alfred murmured, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, a grimace on his lips.

Arthur dropped his spade and whirled on Alfred.

"_What?_" He jabbed his finger at Alfred's chest. "_You— you're just going to give up like that?!_"

Alfred fell backwards, taken aback by the sudden ferocity of Arthur's words. Why was the actor mad? Shouldn't he have been happy to finally get the option for freedom once again? Wasn't this what he wanted, to get away from Alfred once and for all?

"W-What do you mean?"

Arthur made a noise of anger and disgust. The truth of the matter was that he was hurt. He had spent the last week slowly and painfully prodding at his emotional wounds, slowly picking at his scabs until he revealed the mess that was underneath it all. And that mess came with a clear message: Arthur wanted Alfred. He wanted this man in so many ways, emotionally, mentally, and physically. After the suffering, the humiliation, and the blasphemy Arthur had to go through to even reach the point of that knowledge, it hurt profoundly to hear that Alfred would throw him away just like that, so quickly.

"I'm gone from your life for a week and I get this?" He gestured haphazardly around Alfred's surprised face. "Have you suddenly realized that you are perfectly fine without me?" The words were spewing out of his mouth faster than he could even think about them. Arthur hadn't intended to be angry the next time he saw Alfred, and even if he had, he hadn't expected for this to be the cause.

"Wait, Arthu—"

"What about _Elizabeth_, huh? What about your precious marriage to that little cunning _imp_?"

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed. He had no idea where any of this was coming from. And "cunning imp"? What? Wasn't this the opposite of what was supposed to happen? "Arthur, you—"

"I mean, honestly! Alfred! Don't I mean any—"

"_Arthur!_" The Marquess held a hand up to the actor's mouth, which silenced him, more so because a part of Alfred was _touching_ him than anything else. Arthur could feel a fiery warmth radiate from every point where their skin connected, and he froze, half basking in its warmth because he had missed that sensation so much, and half terrified that he was actually enjoying that sensation at all.

"Arthur," Alfred repeated again, gathering his wits about him as he sat up straighter and dusted off his shirt. He watched the actor like he would a hungry tiger. Carefully, the Marquess removed his hand from Arthur's lips, wanting, just as much as the actor wanted him to, to run his fingers over those high cheekbones. Alfred clenched his fists, sure that if he didn't keep them under vigilant watch, he'd do just that—and more.

The Marquess looked away, back to the small pile of weeds which they had been gradually collecting over their short period of picking. "What's gotten into you?" he murmured. His voice was soft, his accent almost completely American. Alfred noticed now when he spoke in his varying accents, and with Arthur, he actually felt more comfortable like this than any in other way. It felt nice to love someone so much that he wished to share such a deep of him with the person. It was relaxing, despite all of the other craziness that was there to counteract that.

The actor took a moment of deep breathing, willing for his heart to calm down. His feelings had gotten the better of him and had acted before his mind could catch up. If Arthur could take back all of his jealous words, he would have. No hesitation.

"I... I just..." he began pathetically. The actor ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I thought... we were..." Arthur fished for the right words. There was nothing he could use to describe them, and the words that came close—the words he _wanted_ to call them, much to his complete horror and disbelief—were completely unutterable. Unthinkable. And so, Arthur settled for the next best thing, and it hurt his heart to do so very much.

"... friends."

Alfred glanced back up and locked eyes with Arthur, who was very obviously struggling between emotions on completely opposites of a spectrum. Flashes of anger, then sadness, then confusion, and maybe even a little bit of hope passed through his eyes, all in the span of a few seconds. Alfred had no idea what any of it meant, and he wasn't in a position to think about it either. He was far too focused on the fact that Arthur somehow still thought of them as friends. _Friends_. That was so much more than he had come here hoping for. Alfred was _ecstatic_.

"Yes!" he cried, a bright smile back on his face. He settled down a bit, clearing his throat. Running a hand sheepishly through his hair, Alfred amended, "I mean, yes... We are." Even if he still felt guilty, and even if he still felt remorse, pain, frustration, and all of those other suddenly less important emotions, the Marquess could not abate his happiness at this little victory. How he had achieved this, he had no idea, but it had happened nevertheless. What a novel idea it was; they were still _friends_. Alfred used to lament that word because of all that it lacked, but it was funny how one tended to take terms like that for granted until one realized they were gone.

Arthur blushed and grimaced, not sure if he liked Alfred being so happy about this all of a sudden. It was his turn in their relationship now to lament the word "friend"—and be petrified of the fact that he was even lamenting it at all. Dear God, if they weren't friends, then what were they?

_Wait, God. On second thought, don't answer that_. _I'm not sure you'd like the answer__._

The actor swallowed and tried his best to explain himself and his earlier outburst, all within the boundaries of friendship. "Well, then if we _are_... friends, then don't you think that I should stand to be just a little offended when you come in here, bursting into my life, and then proceed to say that you would let me go freely if I so wished?"

Alfred raised a confused eyebrow, struggling to force his eyes away from those alluringly crimson cheeks. "Isn't that what friends do, though?" Alfred wasn't really good at this whole friendship idea, having less experience in the matter than an ant probably did. Nevertheless, someone had to give him credit for trying. "And in any case, the last time we saw each other, you sort of..." Alfred winced, and Arthur noticed.

"Let us just say that 'hate' seems to be too light of a word to describe how you felt toward me," Alfred continued, his voice getting softer. "I can't say I understand _why_, but nevertheless, it still stands that you were the one who... who left."

Arthur sighed and flopped down so he was lying on his back. All of his jealousy and anger was gone, replaced by hard and cold remorse. It was as clear as day how much pain Alfred was in, and it caused Arthur no small guilt to know that he had been the cause, because of his own irrational and irritable self.

"I don't hate you," he whispered almost inaudibly, bringing up an arm to block the sunlight.

Alfred glanced over at the figure lying in front of him, a sad smile on his visage. "You have a nice way of showing that," he joked, trying to laugh, though it came out as more of a strangled, half-hearted plea for mercy.

Arthur tried to laugh as well, however, already feeling a bit more at ease simply because Alfred was there. "Yeah, I do..."

"Can I lie down next to you?"

The actor blushed and almost shot back up in surprise, but he quickly recovered before any action was made. Rolling over so that his back was facing Alfred, the actor muttered, "I'm not your mother, Alfred... There's no need for permission."

Despite the awkwardness that hung in the air, Alfred managed to chuckle, even going so far as to sound a little like his old self. He turned and lay down beside his love, feeling that this situation—lying side by side under the summer sun—should have been far more romantic than it actually was. Well, maybe some small, highly imaginative part of his brain could still think about it that way, though he wasn't sure if that would make him happier or more depressed.

"Arthur," Alfred murmured, keeping his eyes trained on an interestingly shaped cloud in the sky. "Because you are my friend... my first friend in a long while... I obviously put your happiness before mine. That's what I mean when I say you can stay if you want." These words were struggling for life, gasping for air, trying their best to come free of Alfred's lips as his mind fought to hold them back. The Marquess, however, was beyond the point of caring if he sounded foolish anymore.

Arthur didn't reply, squeezing his eyes shut. He would have bet money he didn't have that Alfred was radiating far more heat than the sun shining above them was. It was intoxicating, and it was making the air nigh impossible to breathe.

The Marquess took that silence as a sign to continue. "You just seemed so... unhappy, when you... you left. It hurt me to see it." His voice was tight, his words strangled. Alfred didn't want to remember the hostility blazing in Arthur's eyes when Alfred had seen them last. He didn't want to remember that scathing tone, or those malevolent words. But pain and love came hand in hand, and as he spoke, Alfred kept his mind on the fact that he had decided some time ago that friendship with Arthur meant more honesty.

Truth was damn tough, though.

"Are you still angry, Arthur?" The Marquess stole a glance at the still form beside him, noticing that delicate curve of the actor's waist, where he was sure an arm—his arm—would fit quite perfectly.

It was a while before Arthur replied, and only then in a very quiet voice.

"I was never... angry. I was just surprised." And it was true. Alfred had never been the object of any of Arthur's true irritation—then, now, or ever.

"You mean because I..."

"Yeah... "

"You know it was... you know, _Elizabeth_, right?"

Arthur nodded imperceptibly. "Yeah... It was just a surprise, is all. What with... that... and us... and, well, _men_..."

This conversation was a lot harder to have than either of them had anticipated, and they had already expected it to be harder than killing a tiger with one's bare hands. It definitely hurt more than killing a tiger would, as well. Alfred subconsciously rubbed at his chest, while Arthur still had his eyes closed, and was willing his heart to stop beating so quickly before he went into cardiac arrest.

"Well," Alfred began, after an infinitely long silence, "I'm sorry I surprised you. I guess I"—he paused, searching for the right words so that his heart wouldn't burst from the pain of lying so much—"I was just too far into the act. I won't do it again." Alfred closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping his voice wouldn't shudder.

"I promise."

It would be a miracle if Arthur couldn't hear the loneliness and heartbreak in his tone as he had uttered those words. Alfred felt like he was practically waving his arms and yelling to the world, "Look at me! I'm lying!" And there would be a column in the paper on that same subject as well, front page news.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the actor was too busy trying to sort out his jumbled thoughts to notice anything else besides the turmoil in his own heart. _You don't have to promise that_, he thought in reply, surprising himself, and then just as quickly sending himself into a series of Biblical repetitions once again. Arthur didn't know where his mind was, where his heart was, where _anything_ was. Why couldn't life just be simple? Why couldn't he have some sick bastard of an aristocrat as an employer, rather than some gorgeous, charming, intriguing and obnoxious gentleman instead?

"Thank you," Arthur managed to murmur in reply, though that was all he could say on the matter. He felt gratitude somewhere in this mess, and the rest would just have to be compartmentalized at a later date.

"So..." Alfred's eyes searched the sky. "Does this mean you'll come back?" He glared at one of the clouds above him that was vaguely heart-shaped. Was the sky really mocking him too?

The answer came instantaneously. "I already said I would when I left..." Arthur muttered. "Idiot."

Alfred turned his surprised gaze back to the body beside him, and then he chuckled a little bit, glad to see that Arthur was finally getting back into his regularly irritable self. It didn't make Arthur any less unpredictable, by any means, but at least it made him more... familiar, and that was all Alfred could have asked for.

The Marquess smiled, true warmth enveloping his heart, despite the constant battery of other emotions it had endured over the past few days. In Arthur's glowing presence, everything could stop, even his negative emotions, if only to bask in that warmth as well.

"Good."

Something in Alfred's tone made Arthur turn around, and he regretted the action almost immediately. Alfred was lying on his side, head resting on his arm, a goofily adorable smile on his countenance. That brought him face to face with Arthur the moment the actor rolled around, surprising the both of them into shocked stillness. Neither breathed as they both stared wide-eyed at the minimal distance between them.

They lay there in the quiet afternoon for a short, enchanting moment before Jane's voice broke the serenity, like a blaring horn to their overly sensitive ears.

"The baking's done!"

Arthur and Alfred quickly sat up and pulled apart, each looking in opposite directions. Faces flushed red, it took a few minutes before either of them could even think clearly, let alone make a move for the door and head back inside. That brief moment had been otherworldly, and neither was willing to acknowledge what they each had been thinking—which was, coincidentally, the same thought.

_Maybe one more kiss wasn't so bad._

* * *

Arthur pointed his knife at Alfred's chest, breaking every rule of table etiquette he had ever been taught. But he was far too caught up in his story telling, fantastical gestures and all, to notice. And Alfred was too busy staring at the actor's delightfully animated face to correct him.

They were sitting outside, in a small pavilion on the other side of the manor's gardens from Paradise Lost. Alfred had finally taken the time to give Arthur the full tour of the grounds, and the actor was not disappointed. There were two wells, a rock garden, a rose garden, a small lake, a scenic path nicknamed the Friendship Walkway, a series of housing areas for the manor's staff, a few more gardens, the small pavilion in which they were currently situated, and even a small stable where riding horses were kept. Alfred promised to teach Arthur to ride some day, if they had the time. And in return, Arthur promised him that they would indeed have that time.

Needless to say, things were definitely going smoothly once again. It had taken a week or so to return to this peace, and now that it had been lost not once, but _twice_, both men clung to it with even greater strength than ever before. Even if this balance was only maintained by the fact that they both refused to acknowledge anything about how they felt toward one another, it was still maintained nevertheless, and that was the important part. Alfred was too resigned in his position to talk, and Arthur was...

Well, Arthur was getting there.

It had been barely over a week since he had returned to the Jones Estate, in the span of which many events had occurred. Elizabeth was reintroduced to society, carted to many more events, questioned constantly about her health, and, most importantly, kissed by Alfred once more. It had been a chaste kiss, a light brushing of the lips, but it had been a kiss nevertheless. It was hesitant, unsure, but since Arthur had been prepared for it—and dare he say he _wanted_ it—he was able to keep his act the entire time. This relationship—the one between Alfred and Elizabeth, that is—needed to progress, after all, and Arthur was not one to let anything get in the way of his acting. But therein lay the troubling part.

It _was_ acting, right?

Arthur had moved beyond the constant tossing and turning at night by now, but his worries were quickly evolving into a matter of constant thought. His fingernails were chewed through, as he had the habit of biting them when thinking. Arthur couldn't lie to himself anymore. He liked it. He liked Alfred, and when the man flirted with Elizabeth, or danced with Elizabeth, or did anything else besides with the girl, the only way Arthur could keep from strangling her—well, himself—with jealousy was by pretending that Alfred was actually just being with... Arthur. He would be flirting with Arthur, or dancing with Arthur, and all the while, the actor would just pretend. That this was acceptable. That this was natural. For two men to walk about in gardens, joking, holding hands, kissing. Natural.

Sure.

The only way he managed to survive these past few days with the shreds of his sanity was by simply keeping his mind off of those darker matters. If Alfred wasn't going to talk about it, then Arthur wouldn't as well, and God didn't even deserve a say in matters anymore. If he just stopped thinking about it and threw his mind into the present just a little bit more, he could, for a little bit at a time, simply forget.

And surprisingly, it really _was_ as simple as that.

Alfred laughed as Arthur stabbed the knife into the air, mimicking a knight stabbing a bear in the shoulder. He ought to have been eating his chicken with that utensil instead, but neither of them seemed to mind that their food was left forgotten in light of the mirthful afternoon. It felt like years since they had simply let themselves go, forgetting their troubles, their sexual tension, their desire to tackle one another at every turn. And now that they were deep into spending this day together, it felt natural once again. Laughter no longer hurt their chests, smiling no longer cracked their countenances. It was sweet. It was simple.

It was love.

—even though neither would acknowledge it.

And neither of them would actually get the chance to do so, it seemed, for Francis was due for a house call the following day.

* * *

Ambassador Bonnefoy finished off his tea and cleared his throat before replying to Elizabeth. "Are you sure? You seem 'ighly different today, mademoiselle." His eyebrows creased with what seemed to be worry, though it was, in reality, a deep rooted suspicion. It had been two weeks since Francis had seen Elizabeth, after all. How had she changed so much during the course of her "illness"? That sweet, smiling face which used to blush delectably deep crimsons and burgundies whenever Francis touched her or smiled at her or laughed—it was gone. Now, the Elizabeth before him was... removed. Confused. Distracted.

Elizabeth laughed, though it wasn't as light and airy as it had been in the past. "I really can assure you that I am perfectly healthy, monsieur Bonnefoy."

There it was again. That last name. Elizabeth had also requested that Francis begin to call her by last name once again as well. If _that _wasn't a sign that something had changed in his absence, then Francis wasn't sure what was. And he knew exactly who to blame.

The ambassador let none of his worry show, though as he assessed the changed Elizabeth before him, his mind was racing through his last conversation with Alfred. Surely, that Marquess was the cause. Something had happened, and now, Elizabeth—pardon him, _Lady Percy_—no longer looked at him with those glowing green eyes anymore. Her thoughts were obviously elsewhere as she spoke, and when she blushed, it was often as she stared at her teacup, or off at the wall.

Francis didn't like having walls beat him in this competition. Romance was _his_ game.

Thus, the ambassador decided then and there to change his plans. He had never meant to pull out the stops so early in the game, but Alfred had pushed him into a corner. The Frenchman now had no choice, because he wanted Elizabeth. He wanted her strongly, for a variety of reasons, a few of which involved payback against Alfred for past misdeeds. But that was another story for another time. The bottom line was that Francis craved Elizabeth.

And what he wanted, he never failed to attain.

"Lady Percy, might I suggest that we take a walk in the garden neverzeless? Fresh air can do everyone a little good." The ambassador winked, disguising his manipulation quite well under a sweet smile which he knew Elizabeth found attractive, no matter how reserved she was feeling. "Even perfectly healthy people," he added.

Lady Percy glanced up from her observation of the plate of biscuits and gave Francis a small, timid smile. She was no longer confused about her feelings, for she knew she loved Alfred more than she loved the ambassador by now, but she was still struggling. Mr. Bonnefoy was just so _attractive_, and it felt wrong for her to still be drawn to two men at once, if only for looks rather than personality. It was just that sometimes, that Frenchman was almost irresistible in his charms—much like he was now.

"I think that sounds like a good idea," she murmured, already making to stand up. Francis rushed over to pull out her chair, for which Elizabeth gave him a thankful nod, whereas Arthur was gagging on the inside. Elizabeth smiled, though even her smile had less warmth than it had before, and that was really starting to irritate Francis. Alfred always knew how to ruin his fun—though, in all fairness, Francis was technically the one who had dealt the first blow years and years ago. Though to be honest, who was really even keeping track anymore?

Elizabeth and Francis leisurely made their way through the halls, keeping polite conversation the whole way. The topics were no longer as deep, the words no longer as sexual, and that grated on Francis's nerves. He wanted Elizabeth to melt into his arms once again. He had been so close to achieving that, too, had Alfred not interfered and kissed the girl. And who knows what else he did in addition in the past two weeks?

For that, the Marquess would pay, and Francis knew just how to make that happen.

"Ah, what a beautiful day," Francis breathed, stepping into the open. Elizabeth trailed beside him with her parasol, making small, tittering comments about the weather as well. They walked slowly through the Edelstein grounds, Francis keeping a careful eye on Elizabeth's lithe form as he worked through this new plan once more in his mind. It was flawless, and if his suspicions were correct, then it would work magnificently. How many times did Francis have to show Alfred that love was _his_ game, before the Marquess learned his lesson?

"Elizabeth," the ambassador murmured, as they passed under a weeping willow tree.

The girl stopped and turned around, her delicate features contorted in mild confusion. "I-I had mentioned for you to call me by l-last name, monsieur" she stammered, looking to the ground. She wasn't used to making requests, but this matter was important to her. Only Alfred would have the right to call her by first name.

Francis smiled sweetly, and for some reason, that made Arthur shudder. This creep was getting harder and harder to handle. Alfred had insisted that Arthur still keep up the charade with Francis, though, since it would have been far too suspicious to break suddenly. Plus, Elizabeth herself was still attached, the crazy girl.

"Oui, I know you did," Francis murmured, "love."

Elizabeth reddened and her eyes widened in surprise. That was an unexpected and highly bold substitute for her no-first-name request, and part of her shivered at its sensual sound while the other screamed at her to remember Alfred and his worldly charms. Arthur was obviously very much rooting for the latter, and his own Alfred-inclined heart was helping Elizabeth along quite well in that regard.

Before the Lady could say anything else, the Frenchman brought a hand up to caress her cheek. Elizabeth stiffened, and Arthur held his breath. Francis's hand was frigid, and Arthur found himself very much longing for the searing warmth that was Alfred's touch instead.

"You are beautiful, ma chérie." His caress tightened ever so slightly. "Or should I say," Francis murmured, his eyes narrowing and his smile widening into a knowing smirk.

"Mon chéri?"

* * *

**Reference/Notes:**

1. "Tori" is Fem!Lithuania

2. When I said Alfred rang the "bell" at Francis's door, I literally meant a _bell_ at the door. Electric doorbells didn't come into play until the end of the 19th century.

3. Galythia knows _nothing_ about gardening, so please pardon the vague weeding and gardening terms. Or the flowers. I'm like James Kirkland. I can't tell flowers apart. OTL

4. "Ma chérie" is for referencing females, "mon chéri" is for referencing males (as far as I know, being my fail non-native French speaking self). "Mon cher" is the adjectival form, like "mon cher ami," and "mon chéri" is the noun form. Anyways, that's right, ladies and gentlemen! Francis knows.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

First off, I am so sorry that this chapter is late by a whole day! School has started, and I've been doing homework, recalibrating, etc. Plus this is a long chapter (the longest one so far, actually; man, I can't keep this up forever, but they keep naturally topping each other in length every time, regardless of whether or not I try (and I don't)). So I hope 21,000 words makes up for the lateness. ;3;

Recap w/ notes (since a lot happened, some of which might need explanations):

- Alfred has received a letter telling him to stop playing with Elizabeth/Arthur (it's actually not that important of a letter, so don't hang onto it in your head too much; you'll find out later why it's there and who put it there, and it's not actually all that crucial to the plot)  
- Arthur is losing his religion (I love the R.E.M. song to bits)—i.e. he's gradually coming to realize that Alfred might even be more important than God, which is HUGE (and writing religion is really tough for me, since I've been atheist all my life, so I'm sorry if it's unrealistic. ._.)  
- Arthur and Alfred know each other from long ago, and Jane knows Alfred from when he was young too (you'll find out why/how later)  
- Francis hurt Alfred quite badly four years ago, and that's the reason he closed off his heart to love and friendship (but they still feel an awkward friendship toward one another at weird times nevertheless)  
- Francis _knows_. He knows what's up about Arthur! Dun dun DUN!

So yes, a lot has happened, and I wanted to give all the parts the weight they deserved, which is why it took me so long to write. I'm sorry. I hope you enjoyed it, though! I am proud of the content (plot twists, conversations, etc.), though the problem I have with this chapter is flow (and the middle to the end of the chapter in general, from the Arthur's Losing His Religion part onward (god, I worry about the religion subtext in this fic so much). Thus, if there is something you could focus on if you want to review, those aspects would be nice. =]

And I'm sorry for how introspective this chapter has been. I know not much interaction happened between our lovebirds, and whatever interaction did happen was woefully out of character (*shot*), but I feel like their thoughts are quite important as they develop as characters. It's tough to do that without just chunks and chunks of text without dialogue, though, so I'm sorry. ^_^"

For all you grammar people out there, please answer a question for me. In this sentence, "The door swung open to reveal Francis's perfectly groomed butler, Henri, who was halfway through uttering his standard greeting when his eyes registered who it was that was standing before him," is it "eyes registered _whom_ it was that was..." or "eyes registered _who_ it was that was..."? I personally think it's the latter (obviously, since that was how it appeared in my fic), but my old Latin buddy and I were having this discussion, and we could not agree. So please help.

As a side note, it feels really weird to write Alfred saying "bloody," in the British sense. Just saying. o.o (Oh, and anyone else enjoy that _Pride and Prejudice_ play as much as I did? Once the name came to me, I could not let it go. C'mon! I mean Arthur is even _acting_ as an Elizabeth, for god's sake. Too perfect.)

Finally, I started an ask blog! It's quite a dark one (the main storyline, that is), and it's USUK. We've got the storyline planned out pretty well, but the gist of it is that Arthur's an assassin who is hired by the government to kill Alfred. Alfred is a hitman who has skills to match Arthur, and the two duke it out. Over the course of their relationship (mind games, lots of danger, going out on "dates" as they have weapons pointed at one another, just for fun), they gradually fall into a possessive sort of love. And the rest is history! So please check it out if you have the time. It hasn't begun yet (it's just about to), so this'll be right at the beginning: **ask-assassin-kirkland . tumblr . com**

Thank you, you wonderful, wonderful people!  
Galythia

P.S. I _am_ going to reply to all PMs and reviews (the ones that aren't guest, at least. Thank you, guests, for your kind words, and I wish you had accounts or logged in so I could actually talk to you!). It was either I gave you this chapter or replied to those messages/reviews, though, and I figured this was a higher priority. I will get on them, though! I promise!

P.P.S. Some people have asked me about **fanart**, and I say hell yes! Of course you can! Please, please, please! I would love you so much if you did. =3= If you ever have any questions, please talk to me. The majority of you already know that I'm a big soft ball of goo that splats itself onto anything USUK, so I'm really quite harmless.

P.P.P.S. Keeping the name as it is! Thanks for all the input.


	11. Secrets Are Only the Start

_"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."_

- André Malraux -

* * *

**.: 10. Secrets are only the Start :.**

* * *

Arthur stared blankly at the ambassador, surprise passing by his expression for only a fraction of a second before he recovered. But that was already enough for Francis to know that he had hit the mark. Arthur could see it in the Frenchman's eyes that the man clearly thought he had already won.

Well, Arthur was never one to give up so easily.

Stepping backward, Elizabeth averted her gaze to the ground, her grip around the parasol tightening. She looked close to tears as she trembled with confusion and offense—which was, in reality, Arthur shaking with nervousness and fear.

"I-I don't know what y-you are trying to d-do, monsieur," she stammered agitatedly. "I take offense a-at your absurd implications!"

Francis was unfazed as he returned his hand to his side without attempting to touch her once again. He would allow Elizabeth—or the actor underneath—one small victory, in exchange for the much larger prize that was surely his for the taking.

"Zere is no point in lying to me, mon chéri." Francis's lips curled into a sinister smile. "You are so naive, much like a certain Marquess we both know."

Elizabeth clenched her hands around the handle of her parasol so hard that her knuckles shone white. She whirled around and began to walk back to the estate, disregarding the fact that it was an atrocious break of manners to do so. This was ridiculous, what the ambassador was implying, and she would treat it as such.

"I highly r-resent your insinuations, monsieur! And I think it best if you just—"

Francis reached out and caught Elizabeth by one of the ruffles of her skirt and, not all that gently, pulled her back.

"I may be kind to women, but I treat men with a different regard... Arthur."

The actor froze. If this whole conversation had not seized his attention before, then this new development definitely did the job.

Francis knew his name. The frog knew his _name_. Arthur's mind whizzed past possibility upon possibility as the outcomes of this situation, and none of them were favorable. How in the world did Francis know? Had Alfred set this up somehow? Had this plan just been some extravagant scheme of a bored aristocrat, toying with the mind of an "average" citizen?

Arthur swallowed inaudibly. There was no way he'd believe that. What Alfred showed him was real, wasn't it? Arthur couldn't have possibly fallen... well, he couldn't possibly have been friends with someone that was lying this whole time, could he? Doubts swam around his mind, but Arthur pushed them angrily aside. Leave it to a Frenchman to ruin his carefully structured and fragile life so far. But no matter what the ambassador did, he would _not_ get in the way of Arthur's relationship with his lov—employer.

Elizabeth's mind was shoved off as Arthur completely took over control once again. He would be _acting_ as Elizabeth now, rather than _being_ her, a key difference for the actor. This type of acting was harder on his mental processes, but it also gave him complete control.

And Arthur was getting desperate.

Turning around slowly, the actor tried his best to glare—daintily—at the Frenchman. The resulting look only served to make Francis laugh. The ambassador's eyes gleamed as he leaned in.

"I believe zis means victory, mon moineau anglais."

The actor cleared his throat, and he kept his voice in Elizabeth's intonations as he spoke, "I don't know what you think you've won, monsieur, for you have just lost all of my affections."

That only made Francis laugh all the more as he looked at his prize in triumph. Arthur despised that belittling gaze almost as much as he hated the nasally words that came with it.

"I have won _you_, mon petite."

"_Ma_ petite," Arthur corrected. "And you are overstepping your bounds by countless measures, monsieur. I suggest you leave while you are still in my mediocre graces."

With those words, the actor turned once again and began to walk back. Francis couldn't prove anything unless he were to physically check certain areas—and even for that creep, such actions in public would be too much. Thus, all Arthur had to do was continue walking, breathe calmly, stick to his act, be confident, and then all would be—

"It's either I win, Arthur, or dear little Alfred loses."

_What?_

The actor involuntarily stopped. His mind seized to function for a moment as it struggled to register what Francis was saying. It was a threat. A blatant, out-in-the-open threat. If Arthur walked away now, then Alfred would be in trouble. It didn't matter what trouble, or in what way. If Alfred was in any danger, then Arthur had to try to stop it. There wasn't even a question as to whether or not that was the case anymore.

Arthur simply _had to._

"I see I have your attention now, non?" Francis laughed lightly, sending shivers down Arthur's spine.

Ambassador Bonnefoy didn't like being terrorizing, if he were to be honest. He enjoyed playing games, outsmarting his opponents, and in general being the master of all things romance and war—but he didn't enjoy being mean, especially to unfortunate victims like Arthur, who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

However, the ambassador's relationship with the Marquess of Devonshire was a special exception. The remorse that the Frenchman felt for causing the events that were about to occur from hereon out was buried by the bitterness he still felt toward Alfred. Revenge was a necessity for him, though it had been so long since this enmity had started that Francis had sometimes almost even forgotten what that revenge was even more. Almost.

They hated each other, though occasionally, a little bit of their past relationship would show through all the darkness. It would be a little blossoming flower amidst the constant bloody warfare, but then it would be trampled underfoot just as quickly as it had come. The both of them had an unspoken agreement to ignore the ghost of the past whenever it chose to appear, and in exchange, they would always try their absolute best to hurt each other. That was just the way it was, and no one questioned the natural order. Love, sex, hate, and battle—they were merely synonyms for the same set of feelings.

Arthur was merely caught up in the wrong war.

"Well, Arthur," Francis purred when the actor did not reply. "Do you give up your silly charade?"

The actor's mind raced through a slew of possible responses, but all he could see in the long run was trouble and wasted time if he decided to keep up this role. Arthur didn't know what Francis was capable of, but he also didn't want to find out. He'd had an ominous premonition looming over his mind from the moment he had met the ambassador in what seemed to be years and years ago. And now he was far from joyous to find out that he had indeed been correct.

The actor bit his lip. Was the game really up? Perhaps it would be smarter to move on, find out what Francis wanted, then deal with it accordingly. There was so much Arthur wanted to ask the ambassador. Just what did Francis know about Arthur and these plans? And more importantly, what was he hoping to get out of this disagreeable situation? Maybe Arthur could handle this—and Alfred would never have to worry.

Alfred never needed to know.

Arthur lowered his parasol and slowly turned around. He swallowed inaudibly and took a silent deep breath. Looking up, bright green eyes met frosty blue ones, and the temperature differences brewed an oncoming storm.

The actor cleared his throat to rid himself of Elizabeth's sickening voice. "Well, Francis, at least start by telling me this: how do you know my name?"

Francis's cheshire grin widened with smugness, and his eyes twinkled predatorily. At last, this was where the real fun would begin.

* * *

Alfred whistled a light tune as he wandered down one of the corridors in his manor. Hands in his pockets, there was a certain spring to his step as he made his way to the kitchen to check on Tino, who was preparing a few special dishes for the the night's dinner.

Fortunately, the relationship between Alfred and his employees had retuned to normal over the past week, if only by Arthur's bridging presence. Alfred had become immediately less irritable and pitiful the moment the actor returned, and for that, the manor staff learned to like the already kind and polite actor all the more. Thanks to that green-eyed angel, Alfred could feel confident as he walked happily toward the kitchen, and Tino would feel fulfilled and satisfied in cooking dishes of his own invention, rather than of Alfred's insane requests (who had ever heard of deep-frying thinly sliced potato, anyway?).

Today was the day that marked exactly three months since Arthur and Alfred had met on that rainy day, and Alfred wanted to celebrate it in style. Call him a sentimental soul, but he wanted to remember as many days with Arthur as possible, even if the actor would clearly think it stupid and a waste of time.

Being in love with a person who despised him—well, his personal beliefs on sexuality and romance, at least, not to mention his social class—was tough on Alfred. Well, being in love at all was already difficult, but Arthur just made it almost impossible.

Almost.

Even though Alfred had suffered at first, and though he still had the occasional nightmare and sleepless nights, things were getting vastly better. They were getting more and more comfortable with each other once again, and though their relationship would never move beyond friendship, Alfred lamented, he at least gradually came to reconcile himself with that melancholy idea quite well. He didn't need a lover if that lover wasn't Arthur. And since it would never be Arthur, Alfred realized he simply would never need a lover at all. After the ordeals of this past June, Alfred knew that merely being together with Arthur would be enough for his happiness.

Or so he hoped.

The Marquess entered the kitchen quietly, tiptoeing around the tall cabinets of priceless tableware. He leaned against one of the taller ones, knowing he had to be careful. Peeking around the side, Alfred couldn't help the small smile that manifested upon his lips. He should have taken offense at how much his staff underestimated the breadth of his knowledge regarding matters of his own estate, but Alfred was simply glad that his head guard and head chef had finally found their special someone. Places to practice such "unmentionable" love in society were few and far between, and the Marquess was all too happy to make his own estate such a location. He was glad leave Berwald and Tino be.

However, he would also be happy too if there was food on the table for when Arthur returned from the Edelstein estate for dinner. Thus, regrettably, Alfred had to bang hard on the door with his fist, breaking apart the two lovebirds.

The Marquess made some scuffling noises, pretending to struggle with something in order to give the two time to gather themselves. He could almost imagine Tino hurriedly buttoning up the collar of Berwald's uniform, as the guard gave his lover one last, quick kiss before making himself scarce.

They would be absolutely horrified if they knew that Alfred was privy to such activities, and so for good measure, Alfred even called out, as if he had just entered, "Tino! How is the tart coming along?"

"W-wonderfully, sir—er, Alfred!" the cook replied with his heavily rolling "r"s. Even after all of these years, the poor chef had still never gotten out of the habit of referencing Alfred with more honor than the Marquess liked—or thought he deserved, for that matter. Alfred knew he was a lazy Marquess, and to be honest, he didn't really care. He just also didn't want to lie to his employees either, and have them make him out to be something greater than he was. If there was one thing Alfred had learnt very well from his past, it was that he never seized to disappoint people's expectations. (That, and never fall in love again, but he could see how well _that_ lesson was going.)

"Great to hear! And the rest?" The Marquess estimated that this had been enough time for Berwald to disappear out one of the other doors to the kitchen, and so he rounded the corner into the main cooking area.

The air was a mixture of light, sweet smells and heavy, savory aromas. Hands in his pockets, Alfred took a deep, fulfilling breath, closing his eyes to give his nose the sensational spotlight (that, and also to give Tino a moment to get that endearing blush off of his cheeks "before Master Jones became suspicious").

"You are a fantastic cook, Tino!" Alfred praised, opening his eyes once again and observing the dishes that were already completed, lying amongst the mess that was the yet-to-be-finished creations. The three central tables looked like the aftermath of an especially gory and grueling battle, in which the potato army had been close to a victory with its secret tomato cavalry, only to be outwitted at last by mint, bread, cheese, and a touch of sizzling oil. It was, to say the least, an inspiring sight to behold.

The cook blushed a deep red and murmured a few notes of thanks for the praise. Tino noticed that his employer was being far more lively and charming than usual, and, like all the other staff, he accounted that to Arthur's return. The cook smiled whenever he thought about the two of them; they seemed to be such good friends—but was it bad that the cook often lamented that they weren't more than that? Such thoughts had no place in the eye of the public, and so Tino kept them to himself, knowing it was highly unlikely no matter how he looked at it. It was nevertheless still a dream—because then, maybe the could also feel more free about his own relationship as well.

Alfred walked around and asked a few questions about various cold tarts, fruit compotes, roast meats, and everything else besides, which then Tino tried his best to answer. Alfred was seldom ever this curious in the process of cooking, and Tino was more than happy to oblige him in this rare situation.

"Pardon my question, sir, but is the dinner tonight something special?"

Tino had been requested to cook a few very specific dishes from his vast repertoire, which he was happy to do, but such requests only came when Alfred was feeling especially depressed, or when there was an event happening. It wasn't his place to question orders, but perhaps if he knew, he could tailor the dishes' nuances to better suit the occasion. Plus, as an aside, it also puzzled Tino that he wasn't cooking enough food to warrant a party, but surely two people could not down so much in one evening.

Alfred looked up from his examination of an especially exquisite looking miniature swan made of fluffed cream and bread, his eyes shining with surprise that the usually quiet cook was actually asking. But on this occasion, Alfred was joyous enough to answer anything.

With a small, fond smile, the Marquess replied, "No. It's just dinner as always." And that wasn't a lie. To Arthur, who didn't keep track of days and dates, especially unimportant ones like those between himself and his employer, this would be like any other dinner. And at the point where Arthur asked about the abundance of vittles for the evening, Alfred would just smile and lie that he had accidentally requested too much food for lunch, and that this was merely reconstituted leftovers. No one ever needed to see his utterly pathetic sentimentality but himself.

Tino, ever innocently gullible, nodded as he took Alfred at his word and moved on to answer more of the Marquess's eager questions. At this point in his life, any remorse Alfred felt for his easy little lies had long disappeared. It had been harder when he was young, but by now, if Alfred was unhappy with lying, then that'd be the equivalent of being unhappy with the sheer meaning of his life—and the Marquess didn't want to revisit those dark times, especially now that he had Arthur's sweet smile to live for.

With a satisfied nod, the Marquess complimented Tino once again on a job well done, gave him some encouraging words, and then informed the cook that he could take the next weekend off. Alfred explained that he and Arthur would be out and about, though in truth, it was more that he wanted to try his own hand at cooking for the actor himself. Maybe they could do it together, like lovers.

Like the loving couple that they would never be.

The other reason, however, was that Alfred also knew that next weekend marked the three year anniversary of Tino and Berwald's relationship. Alfred was aware of everything that occurred in his household, and he was never so cruel as to deny them that special day together. He really was a sentimental fool.

The tune Alfred had been whistling before—a snatch of some lullaby he remembered from long ago from an unknown place—escaped past his lips once again and embraced the open air. Tonight was going to be fantastic, if only because Alfred would be able to have a "normal" dinner with the ignorant actor. Any meal was treasured, but this one would be particularly special. Unforgettable even.

Alfred could already feel it.

* * *

Arthur had excused himself from the Edelstein estate in perfect actor form. He had regained control of Elizabeth, completely pushing aside her confused thoughts as he perfectly imitated her voice to tell the Count and Countess that he would be leaving—to Francis's "chateau."

Not surprisingly, that startled the pair of aristocrats, who immediately gave Arthur probing and questioning looks which they disguised expertly as concern for Elizabeth instead. He knew what they were saying: this wasn't part of any plan; this was dangerous territory.

He knew and he agreed, but he unfortunately had no choice.

Thus, Arthur simply smiled back and reaffirmed that this was what he wanted—as Elizabeth, of course—and that he was sure he'd be fine in the ambassador's "gentle and sweet hospitality" (it was all the actor could do not to break his parasol in half at this point, his simple smile breaking and cracking at the edges).

Any woman spending time alone with another man at his estate was already cause for alarm. But this was Elizabeth—this was _Arthur_—and their little contrivance (well, not so little now) called for such scandalous actions at least to be had with Alfred, if with anyone. Thus, as their conversation progressed, both Count and Countess increased the severity of the warning looks they sent Arthur's way, all the while trying to hide it from the gently smiling Frenchman lurking behind him. And as Arthur repeatedly refuted their worries, that fact saddened him the most: the Count and Countess didn't have to try so hard to hide anything, if they so desired.

The ambassador already knew.

Francis Bonnefoy had revealed his trump card, and now it was just up to Arthur to go and make a deal with the devil—another blue-eyed devil, different from the one that had been haunting Arthur's every waking moment thus far. And Arthur was willing to bet a hefty sum that the devil he knew was far better (kinder, gentler, braver, manlier, sweeter) than the devil he did not—not that there was much of a choice to be had. It wasn't as if Arthur wanted another devil to join the hell that was his everyday life.

After the exchange of a few more worried words between "Elizabeth" and her "guardians," the Count and Countless relented with extreme reluctance.

Elizaveta put a motherly hand on Arthur's shoulder and smiled, "Enjoy yourself, then, dear."

Arthur laughed lightly and had the delicacy to even blush with pleasure. This was an event in which Elizabeth was supposed to be taking her relationship to heights, after all, though it would be in a completely different direction than anyone would have expected, including Arthur himself. He cringed as he pretended to swoon with excitement at the scandalous prospect of journeying to a suitor's home.

"I will, ma'am," he replied, nodding lightly. "Please let the cook know that I most likely won't be needing dinner." _Inform Alfred, please. But don't tell him where I am._

"Surely you don't plan on being gone that long?" the Count interjected, his "r"s and "d"s weighed with worry, his eyebrows creased together. "Be careful, 'oney. You know how people talk." _You know this is going to get back to Alfred one way or another. He__ won't be pleased._

Both the Count and Countess knew of the Marquess's strong dislike for the ambassador (they had been there to see its history unfold, though they knew not of any of the deeper and darker details). But they knew that Alfred was not going to take anything lightly, especially when there was even an inkling that Francis could be involved.

"I cannot yet tell, sir. Monsieur Bonnefoy is so unpredictable in his charms, but I will be sure to keep your words in mind." _I trust you to make up something plausible._ Arthur gagged at the double meaning of his words; Francis was unpredictable indeed, the sly bastard.

"Please do, Elizabeth," the Countess continued, "I hope you have a wonderful time." _I very much hope you know what you're doing._

Elizaveta leaned in and gave Arthur a hug, giving the actor a chance to whisper quite confidently, "I will."

_I know exactly what I'm doing._

That right there was possibly the biggest lie he had ever told.

* * *

The carriage ride to Le Chateau was likely some of the most uncomfortable minutes Arthur had ever spent in silence. Francis was content with simply sitting back and leering in smug triumph, while Arthur stared out the window from his dark prison, wanting to be anywhere else but there—perhaps even in actual prison, instead.

The irritating silence gave Arthur plenty of time to gather his thoughts, though he found that there actually wasn't much to gather at all. Everything made sense. Alfred was Arthur's friend—_just_ his friend, his mind was kind enough to point out—and now that Francis had revealed his deeper knowledge about their scheme, it was simply Arthur's duty, as a friend, to protect the Marquess. It was simply what friends did for each other.

Right?

The young actor hadn't even questioned handing himself over to Francis when the man had mentioned Alfred's name before. There had been no extra thought to doubt the intelligence of admitting his own guilty role in this crime of deception, or of willingly playing right into the hands of an obviously crafty Frenchman who seemed to be bent on stirring up trouble. There had been absolutely no hesitation whatsoever, and when the ambassador had refused to answer any questions outside the lavish comforts of his own home, Arthur had almost unquestioningly agreed to come here with him as well.

This was clearly a large development from when their partnership had first began, Arthur reflected. He couldn't help a small, wry in ward chuckle as he thought about the time when Elizabeth had initially began her unexpected pursuit of the Frenchman. At the time, Arthur had thought it to be Alfred's duty to protect him and handle all the problems, simply because the man had all the money and the power between the two of them.

But then a real relationship had begun to flourish. Arthur had—without even realizing it, until now—worked to change Elizabeth into someone far less tolerable as time went on. He actively tried to make her weaker, stupider, simpler, and far more inferior—merely because he had been, he realized now, jealous. Alfred had been giving Elizabeth all the attention, and Arthur had thought that unfair. His heart had been indignant at the situation long before his mind had even realized it. And thus, the initially bright, intelligent, and skilled Elizabeth soon fell in prowess and appeal, all because Arthur wanted Alfred's warm gaze all to himself. There wasn't even a point in denying that anymore, so long had it been since Arthur had realized his opinions on this relationship. And though he didn't know how he felt about them yet, he was getting used to it, at least.

It was nevertheless ironically funny to remember a time when Arthur was still emotionally removed from the situation, a time when he had had the naiveté to think that he wouldn't be pulled into Alfred's life anymore than a usual employee would, a time when he had believed that any problems that arose would be Alfred's and Alfred's alone—and now how things have reversed!

Arthur realized he actually wanted to be here, doing the problem solving in Alfred's stead. Well, it wasn't like he desired to be stuck with this nasally toned frog, but he was... almost glad to be here, if it meant Alfred would be safe in return. That feeling of kindness surprised the actor, and yet it also didn't. Alfred had somewhere along the line become someone very important to Arthur, and that thought, once upon a time quite terrifying, was now the only comfort Arthur had for company as he sped off into more terrifying unknowns.

How things have changed indeed.

It wasn't until Arthur had sat himself stiffly down on an armchair at Francis's strong insistence (and it was either there or the bed), that the actor finally broke the silence. There was still much to discuss, it seemed, and Arthur didn't want to miss dinner. It wasn't like dinner was something special, the actor reminded himself, but he had realized with surprise that morning that today was a sort of three month anniversary of the day he met Alfred. Well, it was technically a mensiversary, if they were actually going by correct Latin roots. Whatever it was, Arthur was sure that Alfred wouldn't have remembered anyway, busy and absentminded as the idiot always was... but then again, that was part of his charm. And it was only in thinking of Alfred and the silly sentimental importance if this otherwise insignificant date that Arthur was able to face the terror that was Ambassador Bonnefoy with remotely any confidence.

Clearing his throat, Arthur got straight to business. "So how is it that you know my name, frog?" The actor was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. Even under great pressure and stress, Arthur's countless hours of acting paid off.

"I didn't know we were at the endearing nicknames already, ma petite," Francis purred from his perch on the bed, only a few feet away from Arthur himself. The ambassador was busy undressing from his jacket, and Arthur hoped to God that that was as far as the man would get, though he wasn't sure if God was still even listening. Surely He would prevent the existence of two men, devils in their own opposite ways, from controlling Arthur's every waking moment?

"Call me that again and I'll flay your tongue," Arthur threatened, his eyes narrowing as they burned with an almost glowing fire.

Francis chuckled an infuriatingly demeaning laugh, causing Arthur's grimace to harden. The Frenchman wiped away a year of mirth before replying, "I think someone has forgotten his place, non?" He smirked lasciviously and pulled at his tie. "Should I remind you?"

Arthur opened his mouth for a smart retort, but then Francis's threat on Alfred reappeared in his mind and his mouth promptly shut once again. Letting out a slight grunt of frustration at the fact that Francis was right, Arthur only crossed his arms—looking comically manly in Elizabeth's dress—and glared.

"Just answer my questions, Francis," he spat.

"Somehow I feel like that's the reverse of what should happen, mon chéri," Francis stated indifferently. "However, just because you are so special, I shall make an exception." Francis leaned over, closing the distance between him and the bedside chair. "I know you by your eyes, Arthur Kirkland," the ambassador whispered, the corner of his lip curling into a dark, secretive smile.

Arthur let said eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise. That wasn't the answer he expected; he had always thought his eyes were nothing special (though Alfred would very much beg to differ), and as such, they shouldn't have been recognizable.

"My eyes?" the actor prompted, half curious half suspicious.

"Oui," Francis replied, shrugging off his jacket, "Your beautiful eyes, mon petite. When I first met you at the Bennington Ball so long ago, zere was somesing about you zat seemed familiar. It was not in the way you spoke, or walked, or carried yourself, for you are a wonderful actor." Arthur felt pleased at the compliment, despite the situation in which it was received.

"But _zat_ was it," Francis continued, "_acting_."

His eyes lit up, clearly excited by his own intelligence and skills of deduction. Arthur wanted to punch the man right in the mouth, and the only thing that kept Francis's boasting remotely tolerable was the fact that he was also revealing information without too much prompting as well. Otherwise, Arthur was sure his twitching fingers would have gone for the shot by now.

"Zen when I saw you first dance with Alfred, things started to come togezer." Francis raised one eyebrow. "You are an actor, so where have I seen you before?" Asking rhetorical questions seemed to make the crafty Frenchman happy, which was the only reason Arthur bit back a sarcastic retort.

"Alfred's little project of a playhouse, of course," Francis continued, clearly wrapped up in his own gloating by now. "We used to go there together years ago, but he has never barred my admittance, so I still drop by from time to time. I do love the theatre, after all."

Francis smirked when he saw the expression on Arthur's face. "Are you surprised, sweet moineau?" He leaned in and conspiratorially lowered his voice. "Alfred had many secrets, Arthur. I know him far better than you, and I bet that makes you"—Francis ran a finger along Arthur's arm—"jealous."

Arthur slapped Francis's hand away and shot as far backwards into the chair as he could, which actually was only about an inch and a half. Maybe this was why Francis had placed him here; Arthur had nowhere to which he could escape.

"I am not!" Arthur growled, though as he said those words, he already knew it was a lie. He was jealous, incredibly jealous. But beyond that, Arthur was sad and bitter. Chances were, Francis was right. There were many things Arthur still didn't know about Alfred, like why why his mother seemed nonexistent, or why he kept falling back into an American accent at seemingly random times. Francis probably knew those answers, and that only made him more appealing as boxing practice at the moment.

Francis merely watched on with amusement as he gave the actor time to check his anger, enjoying the emotions that were manifesting on Arthur's expression despite his best attempts to hide them. Some emotions were simply far too strong to withhold.

Arthur fumed for a few minutes in silence before he finally settled a little bit more comfortably into his chair, as well as anyone could when his chair might as well had been made of extra sharpened needles.

"You're saying you've known all this time?" Arthur questioned, pushing beyond Francis's insufferable taunting. "And you still pursued Elizabeth?"

Francis laughed and began to unbutton his waistcoat, an action which Arthur watched carefully and suspiciously, as if Francis was a starved tiger Arthur was clutching a pile of fresh meat that the man had yet to notice. But it was only a matter of time.

"Well, you cannot expect me to fancy women, Arthur." _You can't expect Alfred to either_, Francis added with amusement. That had been the main cause for the ambassador's interest in this whole affair in the first place.

Francis had become suspicious the moment Alfred willingly announced his plans for wedlock, and upon seeing his love interest, the ambassador immediately knew that there would be more to Elizabeth than first met the eye. With that conjecture already in place, and suspicion already brewing with each new turn, discovering the rest was child's play.

Arthur stared at Francis as the ambassador's words sunk in. _Surely you cannot expect me... to fancy... women..._ The actor's eyes widened in alarm. It couldn't be—

"You're— you're one of _those_?"

The terrifying part wasn't even the discovery that Francis had "opposing" inclinations, no. Not at all. The terrifying part was that this newfound discovery caused Arthur to hate Francis _less_. The actor wanted to feel scorn and derision, to sneer and scoff, but he couldn't. Despite his best attempts to fight it, this development actually made Francis _relatable_.

And that was petrifying on so many counts, least of all being the reason _why_ Francis was suddenly seen in a warmer light.

"You mean I love men with a burning passion? Sodomy is my hobby?" Francis asked passively, in the same tone Alfred often used to talk about mundane politics. The jarring difference between tone and subject made it even harder for Arthur to comprehend the meaning behind what Francis was saying. He struggled through the disconnect as Francis continued, "If so, then oui." The Frenchman shrugged. "Surprising?"

Arthur was still staring, and when he opened his mouth, he had completely, one hundred percent, intended to say something entirely different than what had actually come out.

"... Is Alfred, too?"

His voice sounded so curious, timid, and—_hopeful?_ Arthur blushed in mild shock and great dismay, but before he could correct himself, Francis was already mid-reply.

The ambassador chuckled lightly and winked. "You will just 'ave to ask him yourself, mon chéri. I do not like to speak of the romantic lives of other men when they are not present in my bedroom as well."

The vest was now off, and Francis was on to his collar and tie. Arthur swallowed, trying to fight down the slew of emotions that incessantly attacked him in torrents, all the while dealing with the trauma of the wave of new and shocking information about both others and himself. This was far too much to take in during one evening, especially as his mind, above the raucous din of everything else, was constantly warning him to run. _Run._ Run home. To Hertfordshire and away from these insane aristocrats. Away from everyone. Away from Alfred. Run.

Run. And never look back.

"Are you well, mon petite?" Francis asked, with an expression that was a far cry from genuine concern. "You look like you are about to faint."

And indeed Arthur felt that way, as he struggled for air as much as he struggled for words. He willed his mind to focus back in on Alfred and his smiling face, his boisterous personality, his soothing voice. And after a few minutes of silence, Arthur finally trusted himself to speak once again.

Trying to put up a strong front, the actor was determined to return to the matter at hand. The faster he could find out what Francis was going to do from hereon out, the faster he could escape. That meant the faster he could see Alfred again, and the faster he could—

Ask Alfred? The question of Alfred's sexuality now maddeningly swam around the actor's head without even a pause for breath, and through all of his curiosity, Arthur still felt that lingering hope. Hope for what, he did not want to think about, although he had a vague idea he already knew.

It was disturbing.

"... Well, what do you plan on doing? You don't fancy Elizabeth, so..." Arthur averted his eyes to the wall behind Francis. "Do you fancy me?" His voice came out small, though it was still a fierce combination of curiosity, disgust, and hatred.

Francis had the grace to look surprised. He hadn't thought that the actor would have been comfortable enough to ask such logical questions when he was still obviously in some emotional distress. Francis had expected a plea for mercy, a desperation for a good bargain, and perhaps even a few tears for good measure. Arthur Kirkland was stronger than the ambassador had thought.

Francis frowned; he really did think it a pity that this brilliant and stout-hearted actor had to be the one caught up in the mess that was his relationship with Alfred. Such talents and skill were, sadly, about to be trampled under the cavalry that accompanied Francis's thirst for recompense, however. And knowing how hard Alfred was going to fight back, it was only a matter of time before these shining eyes would be broken and weary of life.

What a pity.

Thus, it was out of respect—and not out of any regret for the future harm he would soon cause—that the Frenchman temporarily paused his insufferable flirtation and actually gave a serious thought then a serious answer to Arthur's question.

"Non, mon chéri," he replied gently. If Arthur had looked up then, he would have seen Francis's almost melancholy smile. "Je ne t'aime pas."

Arthur, however, did not look up, and in not doing so, he missed one of the rare times the Frenchman ever showed a sense of humanity. But as fast as that forlorn expression and serious moment came, it was gone.

"Does that disappoint your hopes?" Francis asked, back to his old self as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Arthur scowled, still struggling with focus. Staring at a single spot on the rug quite intently, the actor was finally able to formulate a reply. If he ignored all of Francis's teasing, perhaps the man would get bored and stop. Arthur could only hope.

"If you are not after me, then what so you plan on doing hence forth?" His voice came out a lot calmer than expected, and Arthur had rarely ever been more thankful for his acting prowess than he was at that moment.

"Just because I am not after your 'eart does not mean I am not after your body, sweet moineau," Francis murmured, eyes glinting. Alfred had latched onto quite a handsome thing, hadn't he? The two of them had never been good at sharing, which was the reason they had quarreled in the first place, but there was no reason they couldn't change things now.

Actually, if Alfred _didn't_ want to share, which Francis was quite sure he didn't, then that would be even more magnificent. The point here was to hurt Alfred, much like Alfred had hurt him long ago, whether Arthur cooperated or not.

"I don't have time for your farcical antics, Francis," Arthur intoned, cheeks reddening from anger. Definitely from anger, and not from the question of Alfred's sexual preference, which still ran distractingly rampant in his mind. Arthur really didn't want to be late for this obviously unimportant dinner.

"Get to your point."

Francis chuckled. Leaning over once again, he shrugged nonchalantly. "It is simple, mon émeraude anglais. I want Elizabeth."

"What do you mean?"

"I want her to stop pursuing Alfred and spurn him." Francis's lips tightened to a thin line, and for a moment, he looked utterly terrifying, wrapped up in his dark wrath. "Like he deserves," the ambassador added, almost as a whisper.

Arthur crossed his arms, once again taking this news far more calmly than he thought he would. Perhaps it was because his mind kept returning to the question of Alfred and his romantic inclinations, therefore effectively squeezing out any emotional space left for anything else.

Perhaps.

"Well, I'm afraid I can't give you Elizabeth," Arthur murmured, achieving an almost businesslike facade as his brain gradually became accustomed to receiving surprises, as odd as that concept was. Fancy that, surprises were no longer surprising.

"Then I'm afraid we have a problem."

"What would you want with her, if you do not love her, and"—Arthur frowned, shifting confusedly—"you do not love me?" It was still very odd to reference himself as an object of romantic interest for a man, both because of the concept itself and because of the persistent and nagging feeling that Arthur got every time he brought it up. There _was_ a man with whom that would be very nice, wasn't there?

_Not. Thinking. About it._

Francis moved his hand treacherously close to the hem of his pants, and Arthur had to physically clamp his mouth shut in order to prevent him from crying out in horror at the implications of what could happen from here on out. It was hitting him in waves, the possibility that he was in a room, alone, with a man bent on some wicked revenge. A man who was quite used to being alone in rooms with another man—if not other _men_—doing things that Arthur couldn't even begin to fathom.

"Oh I don't want _her_," Francis murmured, his eyes almost shining with regret. "She is a beauty, of course but I am..." _Incapable of loving two people_... "I am desirous of Alfred's pain."

The reminder of the stakes served to clear Arthur's mind, if only just a little. He had to focus at the moment, deal with Francis, get this out of the way, and then he could break down and panic all he wanted later, in the comfort of his bedroom back home—

Home? The Jones Estate? Was that really— yes. Yes it was. Well, what a comforting discovery.

Arthur couldn't wait to go_ home_, and Francis was standing the way between him and a good meal by Alfred's side. Little to nothing would stop Arthur from spending this frivolously special day with Alfred, ambassadors and Frenchmen be damned.

"Well, I am _not_ desirous of Alfred's pain. I will _not_ give you Elizabeth."

There we go. That was the strength that Arthur wanted his voice to hold. His strength was finally here, and, unsurprisingly, it came in the form of thinking about Alfred. That Marquess somehow found his own way to light up Arthur's life no matter what it was that the actor was doing. What a dementedly romantic thought, surely spun from the very depths of the torturous pit of Hell that was his life.

Francis tsked. His eyes narrowed challengingly as his lips curled into a sinister smile. "It only takes one word from me, Arthur. One word from one of the most important political leaders in society at the moment and your plan will fall to ruin." His smile widened as he leaned over, his face nary a foot away from Arthur's. "_Alfred_ will fall to ruin."

Arthur's heart was beating quite rapidly, and he could hear a slight buzzing in his ears. Francis was right. He was so right. He was too right. But Arthur was stubborn. There _had_to be a way he could solve this without ruining Alfred's carefully devised plan.

"But we— I haven't— we've barely even—"

"And do you think society would believe you? Let me tell you ze story about how two men made 'istory by being hung for one of ze most admirable—albeit idiotic—scandals to grace zis period of peace. A Marquess and his..."—Francis raised his eyebrow—"catamite."

Arthur, enraged and highly embarrassed, opened his mouth to reply, but Francis placed a halting finger there before any words could come out.

"_But_," the ambassador murmured, a new glint in his eye. Arthur was still completely frozen in his tense form, but his mind nevertheless stopped long enough in its boisterous rant and rage to actually listen.

"But," Francis repeated, "I am feeling a little kindly toward _you_, mon petite." That little bit of pity he still felt for ruining the life of such a marvelous actor still hung about, and it gave Francis just the slightest bit of motivation to change his plan. By only a little bit. It was nice to keep things interesting and unpredictable, after all.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, but he listened nevertheless, resisting the overwhelming temptation to bite of Francis's finger right where it lay, resting possessively on Arthur's soft lips.

"What if I said that Alfred could have Elizabeth?"

The actor and ambassador locked eyes for a long, drawn out moment. Arthur searched for any sign of deceit and trickery, but all he could find was a passive amusement. Was this just a game to Francis? Did all aristocrats besides Alfred, the Count and the Countess have such boring existences that they actively sought out the interesting lives of others to mock and abuse?

What a bunch of currish, dastardly, hell-born fustilarians. Shakespeare always did have a nice way with words.

The Frenchman slowly lowered his finger, though his hand came to rest on Arthur's forearm instead. The actor tried to turn away, but the ambassador tightened his grip, demanding attention—and an answer. Giving up his efforts to wrench away from that surprisingly strong hold, Arthur set his lips into a tight grimace. He had to admit that he was intrigued.

"I'm listening."

"Agree to it," Francis challenged, curious as to just how smart or desperate this actor was. There was always a delicate balance between love and logic, and finding that line meant that the ambassador could bend and break it to his will. Alfred had found Francis's long ago and vice versa, and ever since then, those lines had long been deformed, marred, and twisted, each at the hands of the other.

Arthur shook his head. "That's ridiculous. You cannot expect me to agree to something I know nothing about. I _demand_ you tell me what it is first."

And it _was_ ridiculous. Arthur was never one to go for ideas straight off the bat, mainly because he knew by now that there was always something worse that could happen in every situation. It had been merely been depression due to a rainy afternoon, then Arthur met Alfred and quit his job and his life definitely took a turn for the worse. Arthur had been having nightmares back at home in Hertfordshire, Alfred then showed up at his door and add to the stress. Two blue-eyed devils had entered Arthur's life, bent on making it hell in their own ways, then God just had to go and forsake him as well. Alfred had started off as a distant employer, then he had gradually evolved into being a friend. And now he had morphed into...

A love interest.

Arthur was... in love.

It hit him like a shotgun wound straight to the chest, like being slammed into the wall with the weight of the world pushing behind him, like being knocked out cold by a wide and blunt hammer. The pain, surprise, happiness, and horror all came hand in hand. And before most of it could even sink in, Francis had begun to speak, his lips curling up in triumph at last. He understood those facial expressions on Arthur's face all too well.

"If I give Alfred Elizabeth, and let you continue with your silly little plan, then in return, I get... you, Arthur." Francis chuckled, running his hand up Arthur's lacy sleeve.

Arthur stared, and he could honestly say that he had never stared longer and harder than he had then. Too many emotions and thoughts were slamming into him all at once, and it was difficult to find any meaning amidst the train wreck that currently occupied his mind. Too many casualties and damages to count.

"W-what?" He didn't even care that his voice trembled, his eyes blankly searching Francis's own for something—_anything_—that he could latch onto to drag him out of the torrential whirlpool of his thoughts.

Francis obviously found this distress quite entertaining, as he laughed and trailed his hand slowly more and more upward, until finally, it was resting on Arthur's cheek once again, gently though firmly in place.

"I get you to do whatever I want," Francis murmured, "and Alfred can walk free with Elizabeth by his side. Unharmed." Francis guessed that Alfred would probably be even _more_ harmed this way, if his hunches were correct, as they most often were. And what deliciousness that would be, for Alfred to finally get a taste of what it felt like to be a spurned lover. To suffer at the hands of a one-sided love that he would _not_ be able to fix.

It was about time.

Francis stood up from his position on the bed, keeping his hand on Arthur's face. He leaned in even closer, so that now their noses were only a few inches apart.

"What do you say? Will you give yourself for Alfred's suffering?"

Alfred. Amidst the howling and violent winds that wreaked havoc on his mind, Arthur could make sense of that one word very well. It was the name of someone special. Someone so dear to his heart that he hadn't even known there was such a well-hidden place for Alfred to latch himself onto until now.

The name sounded like sunlight, warm and forgiving. It sounded like spring, fresh and magnificent. It sounded like everything good: home, tea, crumpets, blankets, cats, music, family, friends, relaxation, lazy mornings, freshly baked bread to greet you when you return back from a long day of work.

In short, it sounded like love.

Alfred's happiness hinged on Arthur's strength of will, and there was no possibility of Arthur letting him down. Not now. Not _ever_.

"Yes," Arthur murmured, more fiercely than he had ever said any other word. It even surprised Francis, who let his own eyes widen ever so slightly in shock as he pulled back just a little, involuntarily affected by the strength behind the actor's voice. "Yes. I will."

It took a mere second for the Frenchman to recover, and that gloating expression was back, this time with a vengeance.

"Yes, you will what?"

Arthur steeled his heart, thought about Alfred in order to draw on some much needed strength, and swiveled his gaze up to meet Francis's.

"I will become yours."

"_C'est ça_," Francis murmured. The Frenchman's lips widened until he was almost grinning in silent, maniacal triumph. His eyes darkened as they glinted with a newfound predation. Though the war was far from over, the battle had been won—and a strategically crucial one, at that. No one would ever beat Francis Bonnefoy in the game of love.

The ambassador trailed his hand away from Arthur's cheek and down to the front of his fashionable shawl.

"Well, zen. Now would be a good time to start as any," he murmured.

And with that, the knot that held that piece of cloth together became undone—the first of many for the next few hours.

* * *

Alfred slammed his fist down onto the table, something which he seemed to be doing a lot ever since he met Arthur—not by any of the actor's fault, of course. It was just that life seemed to love playing cruel tricks on Alfred, just to see him squirm. Well he wasn't squirming now; he was _livid_.

"You let Arthur _go_? Are you insane?!"

Roderich winced from his chair across the work desk from Alfred, who had, until just a second ago, been sitting down as well. But apparently the frustration made it impossible for the Marquess to sit still, and both Elizaveta and Roderich watched the irritated blond quite warily, waiting for another outburst. This wasn't the first time that question had been asked, after all. They had been sitting here for two hours already, trying their best to explain, but Alfred wouldn't listen to a word of it.

There was no way that Arthur could have gone willingly with Francis like that. This wasn't part of any plan, and it sure wasn't part of Alfred's personal agenda. Maybe he had never made it clear to Arthur that Francis was his sworn enemy, but the Marquess was sure that Arthur felt the same way about the Frenchman as well.

Alfred paced agitatedly back and forth, his feet quick and light, covering the same circular path off an on for the better half of an hour now. Roderich and Elizaveta had long given up on trying to explain, and instead simply waited to make sure that the Marquess didn't hurt himself in his fit of blind rage. Alfred had never been the most mature-minded and level-headed when it came to emotions.

The Marquess clenched his fists, wanting very badly to break something, and as such, he stayed as far as he could away from Roderich's nose. He had nothing personally against the Count—he was just angry, and Roderich was conveniently blamable for letting Arthur go.

Hadn't Arthur and Alfred shared something? Hadn't there been something there that prevented such a back-stabbing move from occurring without consultation and an agreement beforehand? No matter what Arthur had said to the Count and Countess, Alfred was almost completely sure that Arthur hadn't gone with Francis willingly. Elizabeth hadn't gone with Francis willingly either, considering that Alfred was sure that their relationship was finally moving into the next stage.

Alfred reached into his pocket and fingered his family's sapphire ring. Ever since it had come back into his possession exactly three months ago, Alfred had had every intention of giving it back to Arthur, one way or another. Even after their crazy contrivance was finished—a time which Alfred refused to think about at the moment—he had the complete plan to include this ring as a part of Arthur's final payment.

And he was going to start by asking Arth—Elizabeth—to marry him.

But that was before the girl went off cavorting with that crafty French ambassador, an act which Alfred refused to believe was voluntary. Elizabeth was obviously in love with him, and he, on the other hand, was clearly in love with Arthur. And _Arthur_ was... well, he wasn't in love with anyone, right? That man was always focused on work, and Alfred had never even wondered if Arthur actually had a sweetheart of his own until now. They had simply been too busy, and he had been caught up in staring, a task which required all of his attention if he were ever to achieve his goal of completely memorizing Arthur from head to toe.

"Argh! How could you—"

There was a knock at the door, accompanied by the sound of labored breathing, as if the messenger had just been running. "Alfred!" the voice called shakily from the other side. "Master Kirkland is back."

By the time those words had been uttered, Alfred had already crossed the room with a few nimble steps. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open.

"Where, Oswald? _Where?_" he asked hurriedly, but gave the butler no time to reply. Alfred squeezed past the wheezing man and dashed down the hall, sure that Elizaveta and Roderich could follow at their own pace. Alfred, however, needed to see Arthur _now_. He couldn't help but seriously worry whether or not Arthur would come back in a casket adorned with a scornful love note from Francis, curly script and all. The Marquess wouldn't put it past Francis.

He took the main staircase by leaps of three or four steps at a time, and arrived at the landing right when Arthur burst into the main entrance hall, half supported in Berwald's arms.

"Oh God," Alfred uttered, barely a whisper before he rushed over to Arthur. He gathered the drooping actor into his arms, taking over from Berwald, who asked no questions and merely left them as he stood to the side.

"Arthur, Arthur," the Marquess murmured, using one hand to turn the actor's face toward him. "Are you okay? God, what happened to you?"

The actor was no longer wearing his dress, which instead was bundled into a neat little package that was set at the foot of the door. Instead, he was wearing regular looking clothing that looked much like what Arthur tended to wear every day—except that it wasn't. Alfred could feel the expensive silk, he could recognize the cuffs and smell the soap. He would recognize any aspect of this outfit anywhere.

Arthur was dressed in Francis's clothing.

And if that wasn't cause enough for alarm, the fact that Arthur was vaguely muttering something incoherently under his breath sure was. Alfred struggled to listen, but amidst the sound of his beating heart and the shortness of his own breath, he could barely make out a thing. His own thoughts were just as jumbled, as were his feelings, but above all of that, Alfred felt the sense of immediate urgency to get Arthur to a proper bed before any questions were asked.

Roderich and Elizaveta made it to the foot of the staircase and dashed toward the Marquess, but Alfred gave them a dismissive look. He had to take care of this, and they had to understand that. He had no time to deal with them at the moment, and needless to say, he still blamed them for letting Arthur go.

With one look at Alfred's face, Roderich nodded grimly. He understood. And he also knew that if anything bad came out of this—like was looking to be the case at the moment—then his head would be held responsible, whether or not he felt that that was justifiable. Alfred usually listened to reason, but when it came to certain subjects, no logic could ever reach him. His mother, his father, Francis, and now, as it seemed, Arthur.

Thus, Roderich and Elizaveta wordlessly showed themselves out, the Countess sending worried looks Arthur's way as he continued to glance over her shoulder. But neither the Marquess nor the actor noticed, for they were already heading up the stairs to Alfred's bedroom, Arthur's weight hanging heavily on Alfred's shoulders.

* * *

Arthur groaned as he felt something warm being pulled over him. Wait. It wasn't the blanket that was warm. It was... Alfred. Alfred was sitting beside the bed, and he was barely close enough for Arthur to feel sheer comfort radiate from the man. Like a moth drawn to fire, Arthur sidled over as best as he could as he groaned from the pain between his legs.

Francis hadn't even done the deed. He had merely played around, teased, showed Arthur what it _could_ feel like with the use of fingers instead, but Arthur still felt used and humiliated just the same. He struggled at the beginning, but upon Francis's reminder that Arthur had to do things willingly otherwise all bets were off, the actor relinquished control along with any amount of dignity he still possessed. It wasn't like there was much left, anyway, when one's profession was currently to live life as a lady and pretend to pathetically court a man with whom one really was... in love.

The actor groaned once more as he felt Alfred move around and fiddle with something beside the bed. He didn't open his eyes or look over, as he willed his mind to just forget about it. Forget about these ridiculous notions and thoughts, if only for just one evening. Arthur didn't want to think about implications, or about religion, sins, right and wrong, up and down, men and women, men and men. He just wanted to bask in Alfred's warmth and let the world melt away.

"Arthur, have you eaten?" the Marquess asked, skirting the larger matter at hand. His main priority was to make sure that Arthur was comfortable first, then ask the pressing questions later. Plus, a majestic meal had been prepared, and Alfred didn't want to let all of it go to waste. Tino had worked so hard, and though Berwald would probably tell him of what happened, and though Tino, ever amicable and nice, would understand, Alfred still knew that cooking was the man's pride and joy. It would be a waste to let such hard preparation go untasted.

The actor blinked a little and spoke, his words slurred, "Not yet, Alf... Hungry..." In truth, Arthur's voice didn't hurt, and neither did anything about him except for his waist area downward. He couldn't walk properly, not because it hurt too much, but more so because every time he did, the odd sensations of what he did—of what was done _to_ him—came back far too vividly to bear.

But Arthur didn't want to have to explain any of it to Alfred. He didn't want the object of his admirations to know of how marred and imperfect Arthur really was, and above all, he didn't want Alfred to worry. The man seemed to have enough on his plate already, being the Duke of Devonshire's son. Arthur did not wish to add his own burdens to the already heavy ones on Alfred's shoulders.

And so he did what came naturally: he acted drunk. That should have explained things well enough.

Alfred shifted a little and murmured, "Can you sit up?"

"Nnn..." The actor buried his head into the crook between the pillow and Alfred's back, which caused the Marquess to jump in surprise.

"A-Arthur?" Alfred turned around and placed a hand on the actor's forehead. He then performed a few other perfunctory checks for various signs of illness, trying to keep his hands from straying where they shouldn't—especially when Arthur was so obviously in distress.

"What's wrong?" Alfred's voice shook, and he wasn't sure if it was from worry or rage. Perhaps it was both.

If Francis had anything to do with this—and Alfred was almost _sure_ the ambassador had a role in causing Arthur's current state—then there would be hell to pay. All stops would come loose, and Alfred would go after that bastard once and for all, like he should have done long ago. Alfred had played it too nicely, and may the Lord help him if Francis turned out to be the culprit behind this. Actually, even the Lord wouldn't be able to help him then.

"No eating... now..." Slurring his words and acting drunk was not easy to keep up when Arthur's nose was filled with the intoxicating scent of Alfred, as his mind was filled with thoughts of the same subject—foremost of which was still that question as to what Alfred felt about love between two men. Arthur very much wanted to ask, but he also very much didn't. It was an odd and polar opposite dichotomy, much like many things in his life were, in recent times.

Alfred frowned as he could find no sign of a malady except for in Arthur's flushed—and highly arousing—appearance. Those luscious cheeks were glowing an invitingly warm shade of burgundy, and Alfred knotted his hands into his clothing in order to stop them from straying where they definitely shouldn't.

"You must eat, Arthur. It's not—"

"Went... drinking..."

Alfred stopped short. "You what? You're _drunk_?" In all the time that Alfred had known Arthur, he had never taken the man to be a drinker of anything but water, the occasional glass of juice, and a lot of tea. The few times Arthur had ever drunken alcohol was when he had been under great pressure, or when Alfred had forced it upon him—back when their dynamic had been so different from what it was now. Whatever it was that had caused Arthur to go drinking, it definitely couldn't have been something good.

"Uh-huh..." Arthur threw in another groan for good measure as he buried his head further down, reveling in this excuse to be able to get as close to Alfred as he wanted. God and religion be damned, this man smelled _good._

"That's all the more reason for you to eat, Arthur," Alfred murmured, sounding so American to Arthur, which meant that he sounded so _sexy_. Each and every word that came out of the Marquess's mouth caused Arthur's hairs to raise on end, and his occasional shivering—which Alfred took to be a sign of coldness—was actually caused by Alfred's very own enchanting voice. Everything about Alfred was so... warm.

Thus, when Alfred made a move to get up in order to retrieve some food that Oswald had been kind enough to bring up from the kitchens, Arthur tightened his grip on the man's jacket. The Marquess fell backwards, completely not having expected such a move. After some tousling and confused wrangling, he found himself lying right on top of Arthur—who oddly enough, didn't seem to mind.

Alfred pushed himself up onto his arms and came face to face with the Englishman, who was... smiling? Yes. Arthur was smiling, so gently and sweetly, up at Alfred's surprised face. The Marquess immediately took it as a sign that Arthur clearly was _very _drunk to not be pushing Alfred away and running off like he usually did whenever there was any mention of remotely sexual activity between any two men, let alone the two of them specifically. But that, too, was something Alfred had gradually come to accept and cope with.

The Marquess attempted to pull himself up completely, but a hand at the back of his neck prevented him from moving any further upward. It took Alfred a moment to register that that was Arthur's hand, and it took Arthur a moment to register just the same as well. Maybe he really _was_ drunk. Maybe this was all a dream and tomorrow, Arthur would wake up and find out that he was late for school. What a good discovery that would be.

But that would also mean that he had never met Alfred. He would never have discovered all of these new sides to him, and he would have continued onward with his life, perpetually filled with hatred and resentment for all aristocrats. Alfred had showed him a different world, given him a different outlook on life. So perhaps loving a man who had changed him in so many ways wasn't so bad...?

Arthur had _no idea_ where his thoughts were headed, but in that instant, all he could really think about was how good Alfred smelled, and how warm Alfred's breath was, and how perfect the man seemed to be in almost every regard.

"Hey, Arth—"

Arthur's hand moved on its own volition, and before either of them knew it, they were kissing. It started off as one of those gentle kisses between Alfred and Elizabeth, but it quickly escalated into something steamy, passionate, and wonderful, all in the matter of a second—the time it took for Alfred to register what was happening and forcefully eject himself from the situation.

The Marquess pulled back and brought an arm up to his lips, his eyes staring at Arthur in shock. The actor's cheeks were flushed an even greater red, and he was looking at the wall, willing his eyes to stray anywhere but to Alfred's startled expression. Because that hurt.

Arthur had no idea what he had been thinking in that moment, and he sure didn't know what he was thinking now. He just knew that... that he liked it. He actually enjoyed it, and that thought, for the first time in a while, came with no strings attached. There was no guilt, no second thoughts, no self-chastising and doubt. No horror, disgust, shame, or hatred. Perhaps that was because Arthur now considered himself to be the lowest of the low after participating in such terrifying activities with Francis, but nevertheless, the fact still remained that Arthur had not only enjoyed that kiss just then, but he was also actually... welcome to it.

And it hurt to see such shock in Alfred's eyes. It hurt to see the man pull away so quickly, whereas Arthur had been so intoxicated in the moment to even pay attention to where his hands had been straying—which, to Alfred's horror, had been in the direction of the Marquess's own pants.

Alfred was shaking, and he quickly stood up and walked off to the table where all the food was set, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the ground. Arthur wordlessly let him go, and Alfred had to remind himself to be strong and not just run back over there and take advantage of Arthur in such a defenseless state. Spirits always played with the mind, and Arthur had obviously been consuming quite a bit of it, in order for him to get to such a state of lewdness and confusion that he would actually initiate a kiss with Alfred—outside the guise of Elizabeth.

Perhaps the actor was still under the impression that he was acting at the moment, his mind too far gone from the alcohol consumption. Whatever the reason was, Alfred did not want to break the integrity of their relationship by taking advantage of Arthur while the man was clearly delusional. Their time together was special, and all their moments together should be special as well, and not mistakes made out of some drunken stupor. And if that meant that Alfred would never truly ever get to kiss Arthur while the man was sober, then he was fine with that. Loving someone meant respecting his decisions, beliefs and ideas.

And Alfred loved Arthur very, very much.

"You're far beyond drunk, Arthur," Alfred murmured, picking at a few easily consumable items and piling them all onto one plate. Alfred hadn't eaten either, having wanted to wait until Arthur returned so that they could celebrate the night together, but now his apetite was all but gone.

"I dun... care..." The actor rolled over so that his back was turned toward Alfred. He wanted to look into those piercing blue eyes and search them for any shred of emotional acceptance from the man, but Arthur could still remember the shock in those eyes well enough, as if it was an image permanently burned into his own. Maybe he had already gotten his answer. Alfred was just like everybody else, and until very recently, so was Arthur. Things change, and people change, but Arthur did not expect Alfred to ever change like he himself did. That was just too much to hope for.

"Eat up, Arthur. Please." The Marquess walked the plate back to the bedside table and laid it there, utensils and all. He was struggling to keep his hands from wrapping around Arthur's shoulders and holding that warm, currently defenseless body close to his chest. It was only through digging his nails into his own hands, to the point of even breaking a little skin, that Alfred was able to keep his wits about him. He would not—_could not_—take advantage of Arthur. The actor would never forgive him, almost as much as he would never forgive himself.

"Not hungry," Arthur replied, pulling the sheets closer to himself in order to compensate for the sudden lack of warmth in his world. Alfred was barely three feet away, but that was already too far. There should be no distance. No space between them, and oh how he wished that kiss had lasted longer. And oh how he wished that he didn't wish that.

"Well, I'm leaving it here," Alfred murmured, his friendly tone completely different from his painfully longing expression, "and if you do get hungry, please eat."

The Marquess glanced at his pocket watch. It was nearing midnight, and if Arthur was currently inebriated, the best thing for him was to get some rest. Considering how drunk he must have been to have ever mistaken this situation as one under which he had to act like Elizabeth, Arthur was beyond the help of any medicine or cure that Alfred could give him for the extreme headache that he was sure to possess tomorrow.

Just sleep, water and food.

Alfred stepped backward, and Arthur involuntarily began to turn around to stop him from doing so, but he paused mid-action. Alfred didn't appreciate such gestures anyway. Did he hate it almost as much as Arthur had three months ago? Was he disgusted too? Would he never look at Arthur the same way again?

Well, of course Alfred would never look at Arthur the same way again, but that was because every day, he grew to be more and more in love. But Arthur didn't know, and as far as Alfred was concerned, Arthur never needed to know.

"I shall take my leave," Alfred began after some silence, starting to make for the door. "Make sure you—"

"Cn you... sta...?" The words were still slurred, and Alfred had trouble hearing it. When he asked for a repetition, all he got was indecipherable grumbling from the actor.

Dismissing it, Alfred went back to what he had been saying before. "Just make sure—"

"Can you stay?"

Alfred froze. Of course he could. Of course he wanted to stay. He wanted to do so much more than that. This was _his _bed, after all, and though he knew it well from years and years of sleeping there, it seemed like completely new territory to explore now that Arthur occupied that same space as well. But it was an area that Alfred could not cross, no matter how much he desperately desired to do so. As the sober one, he had to keep things in hand, otherwise Alfred and Arthur would both wake up with regrets tomorrow, and this friendship would be over for good. Alfred could never run that risk.

"No. I don't think that's a good idea."

The Marquess shook his head and continued to make his way to the door, the sound of each step reverberating in Arthur's heart like the drum beats before a funeral march, as if the ground trampled underneath each time was his own soul being trampled underfoot by Alfred's uncaring feet, ignorant of the actor's pain and longing.

Alfred paused at the door and turned back to look at Arthur. The actor was still laying on his side, staring straight ahead at the wall, his face red, his eyes alert even though the rest of his body showed a slack demeanor. Did Arthur ever realize how handsome he looked? Did he know that even when inebriated—a time in which people often showed their worst sides and faces—Arthur still looked perfect as he did every day? Did he know that all Alfred wanted to do was go over there, lie down beside Arthur, and fall asleep? No kissing or touching necessary. Just sleep. And that would be more than enough.

But Alfred was fine with just enough. And "just enough" meant closing this door while he would be standing on the other side.

It was amazing to think about how much energy and strength of will "just enough" took to carry out, and it was with an inaudible swallow and a strong and strict chastising from his own mind that Alfred was finally able to turn away.

"I'll send Oswald to check on you later. Good night, Arthur."

Arthur buried his nose into the pillow, the only way he could keep his eyes from straying straight toward Alfred. His words, when spoken after some silence, were muffled. Alfred asked for the actor to repeat himself once again, but Arthur merely shrugged it off, refusing to say anything else or even pay Alfred any more mind.

The Marquess sighed, feeling like he deserved such treatment anyway, for constantly being the epitome of everything Arthur seemed to dislike. Surely that was only a feat accomplishable by great skill and technique.

Alfred stepped out and closed the door behind him, deciding that whatever Arthur had said had been unimportant anyway, otherwise the actor would have repeated himself. It was likely to be something that never needed to be said, and never needed to be heard.

But Alfred was wrong. Those words were the most crucial words to ever exist for the two of them, and it hung between them, prominent in the realm of phrases that would go forever unused. They were words that came with bravery, fearlessness, hope, and determination—traits with neither person had when it came to matters that dealt with each other.

And thus, though Alfred had not heard it, and though Arthur had not repeated it and was likely to never say it again, those words were far from being unnecessary. They were the words that needed to be said most, but neither Marquess nor actor had the strength of will to do so. And at the end of the day, past all the trials and tribulations that life presented them, that—and that alone—would be their breaking point.

_Good night. I love you_.

* * *

**References/Notes****:**

1. "mon moineau anglais" means "my English sparrow," and "mon émeraude anglais" means "my English emerald." I'm assuming you can understand everything else. Oh, and "c'est ça" means something along the lines of "that's it!" or "there we go!" or "that's the spirit!"

2. Fries didn't come to England until 1860, but they were quite popular in Belgium and France ever since the 1700s, and Alfred was introduced to them back when he was still on amicable terms with Francis.

3. I actually _cannot_ figure out how to do Tino's accent, except for the heavy rolling "r" and a few "d"s thrown in there. Finnish is a tough language to textually show, so I'm sorry I just gave up in the end and dismissed it.

**Author's Comments:**

Wow. Hooray for writing the whole chapter, start to finish, in one sitting. Yep. Welcome to Gal's version of a Sunday, guys! Haha

That being said, I am sorry. I am actually sorry, because I've been losing inspiration, and that's why I've put this chapter off until the last minute. My mind has moved on to other USxUK tropes, and it's tough to bring it back to this one every once in a while (which is also why this chapter is far shorter and is also literally just one event, albeit, it's an important event that needs careful explanation, but still).

The reason for my wandering mind comes in the form of—yep, you guessed it—my new Assassin!Kirkland ask blog. Oh my god, the storyline we have worked out for this thing between my partner blogger and myself—you guys would _love_ it. I think you would, at least, considering you like this one so far. It's angsty, romantic, action-filled, bloody, dark—and most of all, it's basically the duking out of two highly intelligent minds who are bent on outsmarting and outdoing one another. I mean, they go to shooting ranges together just so see who can shoot better, and they watch action movies together as they both criticize that they could do those moves far better and with more finesse than the actors could—and then, of course, they both go out to prove that they're good to their word. I mean, they're both trying to kill each other, but if one doesn't run, then the other doesn't chase—for now.

We haven't even gotten into the storyline yet in the actual blog, of course (and my partner blogger is camping, so she won't be able to reply for a bit, but I'm already excited over it). So thus, I've been thinking about Assassin!Kirkland and Hitman!Jones this whole time, which makes it hard to return to a more confused, gentler Arthur and Alfred over on this side of things.

Thus, I apologize. Forgive me please. -_-"

As a side note, as I've been talking to you guys, many of you have brought up both the Duke and Francis as characters that you either strongly hate, or are starting to like a little bit. I don't know how this chapter changed your opinion of Francis, if at all, but by the end of this fic, I want you to feel moments of sympathy and care for all the main characters! Let's see if I can actually achieve that.

Oh, and **from the next chapter onward, this fic will be rated M. FrUK warning ahead (very minimally, because I _hate_ FrUK, but it's necessary for the plot).** If you can't handle some hardcore angst without a light at the end of the tunnel, then just PM me and tell me that, and I'll let you know when it's safe to come back. =]

Happy reading,  
Galythia

P.S. I WILL REPLY TO THAT PILE OF PMs, I PROMISE. There are currently more than fifty sitting there, and I will reply to them all. Just please give me some time. I will catch up on all things! Somehow! (And don't let that discourage you from talking to me or dropping a review! I really enjoy talking to all of you, just as I also enjoy replying to PMs. It's just that there's a lot, and I don't have much time in a day to do much replying.)


	12. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Paranoid

**Disclaimer:** I tried to minimize the FrUK in this chapter as much as possible, but there is one sex scene in the middle. It _is_ crucial to character development and understanding, especially that of Francis, so I urge you to read it. It was painful for me to write, but I felt that it was necessary to this story as a whole, so please, bear with me. It's not that explicit, nor that long.

* * *

_"There is a man who would give his life  
to keep a life you love beside you."_

- Charles Dickens (_a Tale of Two Cities_) -

* * *

**.: 11. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Paranoid :.**

* * *

The next morning, Arthur came to breakfast clutching his head as if he were sporting a murderous migraine, and he limped in a way that suggested wooziness instead of his true disgust at still being able to feel Francis's expertly probing fingers ghosting around from the evening before. There were certain orifices that were meant only for one way traffic.

Sitting down to a fantastic breakfast of whatever parts were salvageable from last night's guiltily forsaken dinner, Arthur focused quietly on his food as he tried his best to pretend that he had forgotten what had happened the night before. He could still feel the tingling where Alfred's lips had touched his own; he could still taste the Marquess's sweet saliva, feel that warm breath caress his cheeks as their tongues had intertwined in a blissful moment that was sure never to repeat again.

But Arthur could blame it on being drunk, and for both of their sakes, the actor wrote it off this morning as the temporary amnesia of inebriation as well.

"Good morning," Alfred murmured quietly as he stepped into the breakfast room. Arthur looked up from attempting to read the paper (he still didn't quite know how to read or spell some of the more complicated political and societal words). The actor locked eyes with Alfred and the two of them averted their gazes almost instantly.

"Good morning," Arthur grumbled, taking a slow sip of his tea in order to have an excuse to say no further.

"How did you sleep last night?" Alfred tried, making his way over to the opposite side of the square table. Mid-stride, however, he paused and settled for the chair perpendicular to Arthur's instead, knowing that he couldn't handle many more accidental gazes this morning. A vantage point from the side was the best one for surreptitious glances without being noticed in return.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, bringing a hand up to his head as he massaged his temples. He knew what Alfred wanted to hear: words that meant things would move on perfectly from hereon out, that nothing in Arthur had changed since they first met so long ago, that Arthur wasn't already desperately in love, and that by the time he had realized, it had been already far too late to pull back out.

Well, Arthur didn't want any of Alfred's disgust, so he was more than happy to oblige.

"I have a blazing headache," Arthur complained, trying to get back into his friendly but irritable self, rather than act like some pathetically and horrifyingly lovesick fool. "I don't even remember much of last night. Something about a pub... The last thing I remember was stepping into the carriage."

Despite his wearily drooping eyes, Arthur was watching Alfred intently, and he could see the Marquess visibly relax upon the incorrect realization that Arthur hadn't remembered a thing.

That hurt.

Arthur wanted to remember, and he wanted very much for Alfred to feel the same way. But it was clear in the Marquess's more relaxed smile now that all the man wanted to do was move on and act as if nothing had happened. Alfred was clearly relieved, while Arthur was actually quite sullen. What a change.

Things seemed to have taken an interesting turn-around since the day Arthur had walked out of Alfred in the garden. So much in this relationship had evolved, and now the actor found himself wishing that Alfred would be so carefree in his demeanor once again. Alfred had never uttered a word in flirtatious jest toward Arthur ever since that day, and the actor had been quite happy with that.

Until now.

But it was his own fault for having reacted the way he did, and so Arthur told himself to cease his whining and just accept that this was how things were going to be. One-sided. Alone.

Breakfast proceeded awkwardly, with plenty of shifting around in chairs, fishing fruitlessly for conversation topics, and clearing throats to fill the silence. Nevertheless, as the meal wore on, and as Alfred tested the waters further to see whether or not Arthur really had forgotten, he became gradually more comfortable. He began to smile more, to become more chatty—a welcome change for the both of them.

How fortunate it was that it would be two extremely talented actors who would be in love in this situation. Otherwise, they might not have been able to hide their inner thoughts, feelings and opinions so well behind such easygoing facades—then again, perhaps that was a most unfortunate fact instead.

Small talk proceeded gradually from topic to topic, both of them skirting the main issue with great skill and delicacy. Arthur didn't care to talk about it, and Alfred was worried that he would trigger some memories—memories that he was sure would break whatever indescribable bond they had managed to cultivate into unsalvageable pieces.

Alfred was happy with how things were at the present, though. He had had plenty if time to think upon the matter as he had lain awake, deeply troubled, on a sofa last night (the main manor had only two bedrooms, and Alfred refused to venture into his mother's, no matter the need or cause). Alfred decided that he was perfectly happy with life at the present. He might not have been ecstatic, and it might have burned his heart every time he laid eyes upon the object of his dear affections, but all in all, Alfred was satisfied. It was "just enough," but just enough was where it would stay.

Thus, it was with a fondness this morning that he remembered the sweet taste of Arthur's mouth, the gentle touch of the actor's tongue trailing over Alfred's overly eager lips. Technically, that was their first real kiss, and no matter how twisted the situation had been, or how much Arthur had forgotten, Alfred would always remember. And that, to the Marquess, was the important part.

By the time breakfast was halfway through, at which point Alfred had had enough time to reconcile himself with his disappointed relief that Arthur had no memory of last night's events, the Marquess was almost grinning. After all, they _had_ kissed. _Arthur_ had kissed him. Who cared that it was under deep inebriation that had rendered the actor's judgment as useless? Arthur had kissed Alfred! Surely that meant something somewhere.

Arthur shot Alfred an odd look as he finished off a slice of bread. "You look positively murderous in your glee," he observed, his eyes trailing immediately to Alfred's full lips, where a tantalizing crumb was situated, almost mocking Arthur in an irritating reminder of what he could never have.

The actor forcibly dragged his eyes away, a blush creeping to his cheeks as he once again remembered the sensation of last night's intense kiss. Clearing his throat, Arthur continued, "Is there a reason I should be expecting blood this morning?"

Alfred chuckled brightly, the tone of his laughter having changed in quality and volume as the breakfast had worn onward. He placed his utensils down and smiled fondly at Arthur, not even realizing the tender expression that had managed to invade his visage.

Unfortunately, Arthur's eyes were averted, trained on the tablecloth lest they strayed again to places that beckoned at the actor with stronger melodies than a siren's song.

"There is no blood," Alfred assured Arthur. "I just thought it was funny the way you..." Alfred had been about to make up some obviously fantastical lie about Arthur's antics the night before, but then Arthur's _real_ antics last night reappeared in his thoughts and Alfred was immediately silenced.

He struggled for a second before finishing, "It's nothing."

However, since they were on the subject of last night anyway, or at least they were in Alfred's head, now would have be as good a time as any to ask his question. The Question.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred looked away from the alluring actor and murmured, "So, what happened last night?"

Arthur almost dropped his fork.

The actor sputtered. "What happened? What do you mean? Should something have happened?" _Feigning innocence, feigning innocence, feigning innocence._ "Did something happen?"

Alfred had the grace to blush as his head snapped up to meet the actor's frantically worried gaze, completely misunderstanding that expression as one of worry that Arthur might have done something embarrassing, rather than of worry that Alfred might bring up last night's major development in their relationship.

"What? No. Nothing that I know of, at least." Alfred tried to move on quickly. "But I know you did come hom—err, here—inebriated, and after a visit with Francis, at that."

The Marquess's gaze darkened and the animated quality of his voice seized to exist as he turned on Arthur.

"Did he do something to you?"

Arthur groaned and hid his face in his hands. The wonder of acting drunk or hurt was that one could hide practically anything behind the guise of pain and tomfoolery. The tears of humiliation and the physical memory of Francis's avid explorations were what Arthur was struggling to hide now. Alfred was the last person the actor wanted to see that weak and defiled part of him; the Marquess deserved only the best.

And of course, Arthur could no longer even hope to provide that after his session with Francis—not that there had even been much hope to begin with.

After a moment of further pretending to massage his temples, the actor looked up and gave Alfred his best smile. It apparently worked, for Alfred's expression lightened immediately, and he gave Arthur a ditsy smile in return, unable to prevent himself from this natural reaction.

"Nothing of that sort happened," Arthur murmured, laughing. "Stop worrying. You ought to take a look at that ridiculous face of yours." His smile widened a bit more despite the teasing jab. It made Arthur happy to see Alfred glowing in such a light. Then again, Alfred had always been glowing recently. Perhaps that was what love did to the eyes.

Love, Arthur thought. He was still getting used to the idea, but ever since God had deserted him and he had, in return, deserted God, such topics were far easier to swallow.

"It was a good type of drinking," Arthur explained, turning back to his food, which used to look so delicious but now looked disappointingly mundane compared to the lusciousness that was Alfred F. Jones. "I had been drinking in mirth, so don't grow white hairs just yet." Arthur chuckled, and as an afterthought added, "You look perfect the way you are."

And before Alfred could reply, for Arthur could already see the surprise—and who knew what else—flitter over Alfred's expression, the actor quickly moved on.

Arthur proceeded to explain that he had gone to a pub merely to celebrate. He had finally done it, Arthur boasted with the strong artificial pride that only an actor could fathom. The actor triumphantly stated that he had convinced Francis out of sheer willpower, logic and might that the man had to leave Elizabeth alone. He had accomplished the task that troubled the both of them, and as such, he had felt the need to let loose. That was all. By just willpower, logic, and might.

Right.

This was fantastic but suspicious news to Alfred, of course, who then launched into a slew of incessant and pestering questions about the specifics of how Arthur had ever accomplished such. He knew Francis very well, and it wasn't at all like the man to give up his pursuit unless there was something much better to be had in return. And surely, after all these years, there still couldn't be anything more riveting and compelling to the focused Frenchman than the thought of Alfred's sadness, could there? Had Francis really finally found something else into which he could latch his desperate and dark talons?

Arthur didn't go into many details over the course of breakfast and the remaining day, and Alfred continued to doubt the validity of Arthur's claims, even as the actor reassured the Marquess time and time again that all was said and done.

Such apprehensions and suspicions began to vanish the next evening, however, when all three members of this demented love and torture triangle were present for a small gathering out in Edgware. It was actually the wedding celebration of the Duke and Duchess of St. Alban's, who had been recently married in private out in the northern countryside, and now returned to officially present themselves to society as one entity from hereon out.

Arthur—_Elizabeth_—and Alfred had arrived at relatively the same time, and were lightly chatting away, in the vaguely intimate and close manner that they had been able to achieve in the past couple of weeks. Such a development was of course further helped by the fact that Arthur was finally falling into his role as well. These flirtatious comments and bashful coquettish gestures were part of his game now. He wanted it just as much, if not more than, Elizabeth did. And as he grew more comfortable with this idea, closer to love and further from God, Arthur actually became happier. God had never shown himself to the actor, especially in the past few months. Alfred, on he other hand, was tangible. And oh how Arthur wished that Alfred would be even _more_ tangible—so tangible that that word itself would come to mean the Marquess's own name.

It was a silent dream. A silly dream. And as such, the actor kept it to himself.

The conversation was proceeding very smoothly and comfortably when Ambassador Bonnefoy's name was announced. Alfred's head snapped up and Elizabeth froze, though she didn't quite know why. Arthur had played with her memory so that nothing that had happened in the garden and onward would be remembered. Far fewer complications that way.

The suave Frenchman climbed down the stairs with the grace of a swan—a deadly, sinister and lascivious swan, with piercing eyes and an overly recognizable tone of voice.

Francis wasted no time in searching for the two, and within moments of his entrance, the Frenchman was upon them like a vulture, a well mannered vulture that had kindly forced its prey into being slowly devoured, rather than waiting for it to die on its own schedule.

"Bonsoir Marquess Harrington, Lady Percy," Francis murmured, bowing low. He bent to kiss Elizabeth's hand, but Alfred quickly and involuntarily pushed it out of the way, much to Arthur's vast relief.

Standing up from his position at the small table, the Marquess grimaced. "It is a good evening indeed," he replied perfunctorily. "But it would be better if you were not here," he added, softly enough so that only Francis could hear.

The Frenchman simply smiled, his stubbled visage shining with mischievous delight.

"I am actually here to make your evening better, Marquess. Might I talk to you for just a little bit in private?" Gesturing to Elizabeth, who was peeking around Alfred's protective and strategically placed shoulder, the Frenchman reasoned, "Ze Lady must be curious about ze rest of society. And considering 'ow much we have monopolized her valuable time, she barely knows anyone else."

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed as he opened his mouth to argue. He reconsidered, however, when he realized that this could very well have to do with Arthur's claim that Francis had finally backed off. If that was the case, the Marquess had to see things for himself.

"Agreed," Alfred murmured at last. He could feel Arthur shift behind him as stupefaction flitted over the actor's face. The surprise, accompanied by a vague apprehension, was also shared by Elizabeth, who could remember very well all the instances she had been alone together with the alluring ambassador. Neither Arthur nor Elizabeth would have put it past Francis to carry out some cleverly disguised seduction, if not fowl play, on Alfred. There was no way Arthur was letting his love get close to that thing over there. Especially after the recent evening of painful events.

"Alfred, I can assure you that I do not need—"

"I will be all right, Lizzie," Alfred murmured, sending a fond and reassuring smile in her direction. It piqued his curiosity greatly that Francis hadn't even bristled at the nickname. Perhaps Arthur really had been right.

Elizabeth gave the Marquess a long assessing look before finally nodding silently. Despite their worries, both actor and Lady trusted the Marquess. He always shone with such bright confidence that it almost made it impossible _not_ to believe in everything he did, and to put faith in every choice he made.

Lady Percy turned to Francis and smiled sweetly, though not quite so warmly anymore. Such smiles were reserved for Alfred and Alfred alone.

She curtsied lightly and murmured, "A good evening to you, then, monsieur." Turning back to the Marquess, Elizabeth continued, "Al, I will—I mean, Alfred—I will be over by the refreshments." For some reason, Alfred insisted that he not have a nickname of any sort. The name came naturally to Elizabeth, however, and thus she often let it slip accidentally, which never failed to make Alfred's lips tighten into a quick grimace before his happy facade returned.

Because that was what it was: a facade. Of all the guests and noblemen present at public events, Alfred probably hated these gatherings the most. Arthur and Elizabeth both knew that, and they always tried their best to keep the man entertained. Hopefully, Francis wouldn't have that same goal in mind as well.

The Marquess nodded in acknowledgement and gave her a kind smile in return.

"I shall miss your sweet company. Expect me back in less than half an hour." Alfred have Arthur a long hard look that clearly meant 'If I don't come back by then, come find me. Or alert international security. Both would be good measures to take, knowing Francis.'

Francis murmured a parting word to Elizabeth like a perfect gentleman would, leaving out any and all hints of flirtation or libidinous intent. The surprises just kept coming for Alfred tonight; this was almost like seeing a new side of Francis altogether.

It was rather unnerving, actually.

Once Elizabeth had curtsied once more, and both men had bowed, the lady left their company. Francis turned on Alfred, an amused expression on his face.

"Come, let us find somewhere quiet."

He began to walk, and Alfred followed, warily watching the ambassador's every move. This amused Francis all the more.

"I really don't bite, you know," Francis chuckled, shaking his head.

"I have physical evidence to the contrary," Alfred muttered darkly, glancing suspiciously at the Frenchman.

Francis laughed. "Oh but Alfred, admit it," he murmured, a soft teasing tone returning to his words, "You love it."

"I did," Alfred shot back quickly.

The Marquess wasn't beyond admitting the dark mistakes of his past, but he also wanted to make sure the truth of the present was perfectly clear as well. No misunderstandings for Francis to further exploit.

The ambassador turned to look at Alfred as they reached one of the empty sitting rooms of the extravagant manor. When their eyes met, one smiling and the other glaring, the air became electrified. That was the thing about old lovers; the emotional intensity never changed, even if the emotions themselves did. And now, instead of adoration and affection, the air was charged with hatred, anger, vengeance, and, most evidently of all...

Regret.

But regret was too passive an emotion. It lurked and hid in the shadows of the heart, too timid to be admitted, but too strong to be fully ignored. Thus, it was lost, shoved aside by other, more boisterous feelings that clamored constantly for the spotlight.

Neither Alfred nor Francis would ever take action to atone for the past, and they both would remain antagonistic and hurt as they fought through the war, stubborn in their pride, refusing to apologize as more and more reasons for an apology appeared.

Hand on the handle, Francis smiled wryly. "I really 'ave no ill intent," he murmured, wrenching the door open. He stepped inside without looking back to see if Alfred would follow. "Trust me."

"Making a deal with the Devil would be a smarter move," Alfred muttered, following the Frenchman inside nevertheless.

Francis chuckled and closed the door behind him. Straightening his jacket, he turned to Alfred, a crafty smile gracing his lips.

"Well, Alfred, perhaps zat is one and the same, non?"

* * *

Alfred wandered slowly back down the hall, with only his thoughts as company. Francis had escaped down the corridor in the other direction, leaving the Marques to make his way back to the main hall alone. Which was good. Alfred needed some time to let it all sink in. His brows furrowed as he let Francis's words wash over him once again.

_"It is simple, Alfred. I am acquiescing."_ Then there was that infuriatingly mysterious nonchalant smile. _"In ozer words, Elizabeth is all yours."_

Alfred hadn't fully believed it when Arthur had first told him, and he still couldn't quite believe it now. It was just so... unreal. It was almost the exact opposite of what Francis would do. The ambassador was probably one of the most determined and dogged people Alfred had ever had the displeasure to know. "Relenting" was not in the man's vocabulary, in English or French.

But even more unnerving than the fact that Francis was conceding his position was the reason why.

When Alfred had asked, Francis had merely replied, dark glint in his eye and all, _"I have found a greater prize, Alfred. A higher treasure, a most beautiful... gem."_

What was that even supposed to mean? No matter how many times Alfred attempted to pry further into the matter, Francis merely brushed off his questions with further vague answers. And the most infuriating thing was that they both knew the Frenchman was doing it on purpose. Where would be the fun of their little game if they made things easier on each other?

Eventually, the Marquess had realized that he was nearing the half hour mark, and that further conversation would continue to yield zero results—maybe even negative results, considering just how much more annoyed Alfred was getting by the minute.

And so they had parted, Francis apparently happy when circumstances dictated he should have been unsatisfied, and Alfred unsatisfied when he should have been happy.

Something still felt incredibly wrong with that fact, though Alfred eventually brushed it off as paranoia. He had known Francis for too long. Perhaps the man had changed, just as Alfred himself had changed. Perhaps Arthur simply had that power over everybody he touched.

Wouldn't that have been a nice thought?

* * *

The next session with Francis came the following afternoon after the Duke and Duchess's wedding ball. It wasn't even a formal invitation of any sort; Francis's empty carriage simply appeared at the door to the guest house, and that was already enough for Arthur to know what he had to do.

Arthur and Alfred had been on their way back from the Marquess's first visit to Esmeralda's grave. It had been a sudden decision to go, but ever since Arthur had started to brighten up Alfred's life, the Marquess had felt his guilt for their manner of parting triple in size and weight. He had been rash and young, a coward in the face of such heavy duties. No doubt Esmeralda had felt betrayed, and though Arthur had never mentioned it, Alfred was sure that Esmeralda had talked to the actor a lot about a boy she once knew years ago. Alfred knew such because Arthur would drop a few facts about him every so often that the Marquess had never mentioned, such as his love of star gazing. It felt a bit unfair, actually, that Arthur should get to know these bits of extra information about Alfred from Esmeralda, but Alfred would never get to know the same in return.

Perhaps that was fitting punishment.

Arthur had gradually come to forgive Alfred for abandoning Esmeralda as time went on. It came naturally, as the actor had more and more chances to learn about how kind hearted and gentle Alfred really was. Whatever the reason, Arthur trusted now that it had been an educated one, if only vaguely so.

Thus, Arthur was happy to reunite the pair, and he had respectfully given Alfred his moment alone with the grave as the actor himself wandered between the other tombstones. He was glad that Alfred had finally found it in himself to face some of his responsibilities, and he was quite pleased that Alfred had chosen him to be there for that turning point in the Marquess's life (the actor pointedly ignored the fact that he had also been the only one to know where Esmeralda's grave was located in the first place).

Alfred had taken his time to get reunited with the only other woman he might have ever loved aside from his own mother, though very much in the same sense. Esmeralda was his home after the death of Catherine Jones, and it had pained him to remember that he had forgotten. He had forgotten her in the time up until Arthur had stumbled his way into Alfred's life, simply because he had been so caught up in trying_ not_ to get caught up in the insane affairs of his day-to-day living.

It had been selfish, and now, he apologized for it. He apologized for abandoning her, for disregarding her opinions on the matter, for forgetting—though most of all, for falling in love. Esmeralda had brought Arthur into his life, and for that, Alfred was infinitely grateful. But in return, he had foolishly fallen for the actor, and Alfred wasn't so blind as to be unable to see how much pain his affections caused the actor. Time and time again, Alfred had been rejected indirectly, making stupid comments and rash actions, and he was sure that time and time again, he would continue to be shunned.

But it was due punishment for all of his wrongs, Alfred concluded, to Esmeralda and to Arthur. And as such, Alfred would accept the lashes with gritted teeth and his head held high.

It had been a relief to get at least a little of the guilt off of Alfred's shoulders, and Arthur noticed that the Marquess was a lot more animated on their return trip than he had been on the way there. The fretful and somber mood had been replaced by a warmth that seemed centered upon the Marquess as it spread to all the corners of the carriage. Arthur often found himself shivering, not because such a feeling caused any negative reactions, but rather because it tickled. It was as soft and welcoming as cuddling a baby chick, newly born. In other words, it was in a very positive reaction that Arthur hugged himself as he trembled in the warmth. He adored this feeling.

Talking afterward had been a tad bit awkward, simply because Alfred had been under the mistaken impression that Arthur still harbored resentment for the betrayal. However, as time passed and they began to speak more, Arthur never needed to say anything to let Alfred know that he was forgiven. This act of visiting—and a few others that Alfred could not distinguish, but that Arthur could remember quite fondly—had been sufficient atonement. Alfred had done more than enough to right his wrongs, and it was about time someone gave him a rest.

Their conversation had—for possibly the first time ever—eventually deviated onto the subject of the past, which they had both been passively skirting up until then. But now, somewhere along the line, their relationship had evolved to the point where they _wanted_ each other to know. They both felt the need to be accepted completely and wholeheartedly by the one they loved, dark past and all.

Well, perhaps not _all _of it. The story with Francis could have been—

Alfred stiffened as his eyes met the sight outside the window. They were turning right into the main lane out in front of the guest manor, and there, awaiting in eerie patience, a jarring serenity, was Francis's carriage.

The Maquess sent an alarmed look Arthur's way, and the actor swallowed, trying his best to hide his fear and growing apprehension. He didn't want to think about it, and his body definitely didn't want to remember, but as he locked eyes with Alfred, Arthur was reminded of why he had to do what he had to do. Alfred's marriage was important, and if this broke into a scandal, not only would Alfred forever be shunned from society, but he would likely hate Arthur for the remainder of his life. Not that Arthur'd probably be alive to experience it anyway.

But yes, it was completely out of a selfish desire to keep Alfred close at hand that Arthur was doing this. The actor never wanted to see vehemence and anger radiate from Alfred toward his direction, and for that, he would do almost anything.

Francis had taken up that challenge quite well.

Alfred stared as they neared the main door. "What is he—"

"Don't worry about it."

The Marquess turned to Arthur, who was passively looking out the window as well, his emotions disguised quite well behind a calm façade.

"Why shouldn't I?" Alfred's eyebrows creased with a curiosity that bent on suspicion. Did Arthur know something Alfred didn't?

Arthur glanced over. "Because he means no harm." _To you, at least._

"No harm?" the Marquess cried incredulously. "No _harm_? Have you forgotten how Elizabeth almost—"

"No, I have not," Arthur replied, grimacing. It was becoming more and more difficult to hold back the growing dread from seeping into his voice. "However, trust me this once. He really comes under a banner of peace."

"How would you know?"

"I have... business with him."

Alfred's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Business? What sort of—"

"Just business." _Casual and nonchalant, Arthur. Casual and nonchalant._

Alfred's assessing gaze scanned the actor's face with close scrutiny. Since when did Arthur have secrets with Francis as well? Since when did they even know each other, for that matter?

After a few seconds of silent searching, Alfred relented. Call it love or call it stupidity—for they really were one and the same—but the Marquess decided to put his faith in Arthur. Whatever the actor's reasons were, Arthur seemed to have a smart head on his shoulders—albeit an highly irritable and easily flustered one, at that. But that was all part of his irresistible charm.

As their carriage came to rest behind Francis's royal blue one, Alfred sighed. He turned to Arthur, conveying only about a fifth of his anxiety and apprehension through his eyes; if Arthur knew the full amount of care and worry Alfred actually felt, no doubt the actor would see the most lovesick expression ever known to have existed—except not, because it didn't exist. Alfred made sure of that.

As the door to the carriage opened, Alfred stood up and murmured, "Well, let us get this over with as fast as possible, then. You should go change first, before we—"

"I don't need to change."

Alfred stopped short. "What? Why?"

"Francis has given up on Elizabeth, remember? The business he has is with me and me alone."

_"He knows you?!"_

"Yes," Arthur replied blandly, giving Alfred a look that cut off any further argument. The actor glanced passively through the side of the open door at the ornate blue and gold carriage. "And with that here, my guess is that I have to go to his castle-or-whatever-you-all-call-it."

"Wait— how—"

"Alfred," Arthur muttered impatiently, not sure why he was annoyed. It was Alfred's place to be curious about the business of his employees, after all.

_Huh. Employee. What a bitter word._

The Marquess stared at Arthur for a bit before sighing once again, shoulders sagging down in defeat. He really didn't like hearing that tone come out of Arthur's mouth, especially directed at him—but it seemed like that was all he could ever do around Arthur: annoy him.

Alfred stepped out and subconsciously reached out a hand to help "the Lady" down, despite the fact that Arthur was dressed as his true self at the moment. The actor took the hand without a second thought, and it was only until both his feet were on the ground did he realize that his palm felt far warmer than it should have. As casually as he could, he tried to slip his hand out, which caused Alfred to jump back and let go, startled. Turning to opposite directions, they both blushed vividly, and Alfred fumbled around with his words as he regathered his train of thought.

"I— Francis, he— err... How do you know he's not here?"

Arthur shook his head and began to make his way over to the other cab, glad for somewhere else to look at aside from Alfred's alluring face and something to focus on aside from the faint tingling in his hand.

"Do you think Francis would honestly come here uninvited?" Arthur questioned in reply. "You two seem..." Well, Arthur didn't know the history, but it seemed atrocious. "... At odds," he finished with a sad tone, not lamenting the state of the relationship between the Marquess and the ambassador, but more so lamenting that Arthur did not know what said relationship was. Alfred obviously didn't trust him enough to say, despite them being what Arthur considered to be good friends. It was thoroughly depressing to have such one-sided feelings.

"Good point," Alfred replied, his mind clearly on something else. "Arthur, won't you—"

"I can't. This is important."

Knowing that he had no time to waste, lest he break some clause in their unspoken contract by lacking punctuality for an unplanned time, Arthur didn't even bother to stop back into the house. He obviously was not eager to go, but if he had to, sooner would be better than later. More time to drown his sorrows in rum afterward.

Alfred made a move to stop the actor as he began to climb into the empty carriage, Francis's driver wordlessly holding open the door.

The actor was right; Francis wasn't there. Of course, that made Alfred even more apprehensive than he had been before; he could often get the gist of what was working away in the Frenchman's mind by looking at him, but Alfred could tell absolutely nothing from just an empty carriage.

"Arthur..."

The actor turned mid-entrance and gave Alfred a warm smile. "I'll be fine, Al." And before anything else could be said, Francis's driver (a new one since Alfred had known him long ago) shut the door.

Alfred stood there and stared as the driver made some quick preparations, and then they were off and down the lane.

Of course the Marquess was worried, and of course he wanted to chase after Arthur to the ends of the earth just to ensure his safety, but he was glued to his position by the one fact that was—foolishly—at the absolute forefront of his mind:

Arthur had called him 'Al.'

* * *

The first thrust was accompanied by excruciating pain of the sort that ripped screams from the throats of hardened men. Arthur was no hardened man, but he was proud, and that was barely enough; he would not let Francis break him, under any circumstances.

As his bottom lip bled from his literal attempts to bite back his cries, Arthur gripped the sheets and buried his face into the pillow. He would not weep, just as he would not scream. But even as he repeated that mantra over and over in his head, Arthur could already feel the sheets below his face dampen with his noiseless tears.

Sodomy was a sin on every level, and though God and Arthur were not on the best of terms in recent months, there was a key difference between ignoring the laws and actively going against them altogether. It was a key difference that he surprisingly realized he might have been able to overlook with Alfred—a crazy unrealizable dream or nightmare—but definitely not with anyone else.

This was especially difficult because Arthur had been a virgin up until this point, and he, ever the romantic, had always thought that he would have intercourse with only the person to whom he would have vowed to devote his life. Maybe he had been too naive, raised in an environment sheltered from hard reality. Whatever it was, it still stood that Arthur didn't know where along the road he had fallen in with the wrong people—in other words, with Francis Bonnefoy.

Because even though Arthur had experienced many physical, emotional, and psychological changes at the Marquess's unwavering hands, this wasn't Alfred's fault. No. Alfred was Arthur's shining angel, and nothing would mar his beauty, not even the blood and feces that was currently staining the inside of the actor's thighs.

And thus, as he endured Francis's mechanical thrusting, Arthur gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried his best to ignore the taste and smell of blood.

It hadn't been grand or ceremonious, his "taking." Upon Arthur's arrival, Francis greeted him at the door and immediately proceeded to remind the actor of the stakes at hand, lest he be stubborn or feisty—as if Arthur would actually forget. Thinking about the reason was often the only means by which he could endure the pain, emotional, psychological, and physical.

Arthur was immediately asked—ordered—to remove his clothing, as this would be "the day." Arthur only froze for a second of absolute dread at those words before proceeding to fumble perfunctorily through his buttons. Francis hadn't even watched the hesitant strip show as Arthur tried his best to send glares the ambassador's way—docile glares, albeit. He didn't want to cross any lines by accident, and it was a bit difficult to look menacing as his hands shook and his rectal muscles automatically clamped down hard in protest. Arthur didn't want any foreign objects in there again.

When it was time, Arthur was simply left with a jar of cream and was told to prepare himself as Francis went to retrieve some wine from his vast cellar. Perhaps it was a tactic of psychological damage, but forcing the actor to willingly go through certain motions himself hurt more than simply allowing him to be passively used. Arthur felt disgusting as a mere toy, but he felt absolutely and horribly demented as an 'active' participant. He had the choice to stop, in a way. He always did. But he was choosing to go on, to pull his shirt off of his shoulders, to lie face down on the bed, to stick his own finger in a place where fingers should never go.

He made the choice.

The Frenchman had returned with two glasses and a fresh bottle of wine from his own vineyard. Arthur bitterly refused a glass, his fingers still probing the unknown in an attempt to stretch before any true damage would be dealt. Then again, there already wasn't much left to break.

When Francis finally made his way over, there was no warmth, no caress. The man simply flipped Arthur over, placed his member at the entrance, then pushed.

That being said, Arthur actually found it to be surprisingly gentle. Francis took his time, letting Arthur get acquainted with the size. He let Arthur breathe at the beginning as the actor fought down the urge to hurl due to the pain and sickness of it all. Francis had even asked once whether or not he had been going too fast. It was thoroughly surprising, and it frustrated Arthur because he wanted to be angry. Francis just made it difficult because he seemed to actually care about Arthur's well being—a trait quite rare in any rapist.

But Arthur didn't need to think about it much more, considering that as time went on, Francis became less and less gentle. He drank more wine, became more imbibed, and by the end of it, he was thrusting with reckless abandon.

Just as Arthur had been getting used to the pace, Francis had sped up, and the actor began to bleed. Even gritting his teeth through it all, Arthur still released the occasional cries of pain, with Francis obliviously continuing on.

Somewhere through the red haze, Arthur could distinguish that name-calling had also began. During the time, he had thought that Francis had been bad-mouthing Arthur, adding insult to injury in a very literal sense. However, upon later looking back, such a view made no sense. As Francis had thrust Arthur deep into the bed, the man had been wailing about something or other—something about betrayals, bastards, and, odd as it was, the name "Bonnefoy." He kept saying phrases like, "What a wanton whore, you are, Bonnefoy" and "Oh, you like zis, don't you, you sick French slut." Arthur was not French, and he was clearly not a Bonnefoy. Thus, it would seem as if...

As if Francis had been raging at himself.

Thoroughly drunk, the ambassador seemed bent on releasing his troubles into the wild, and those troubles seemed quiet laden with some sort of promiscuous guilt, buried so deep that only alcohol could bring it to light once again. Arthur had no idea what it all was about—until this phrase arrived: "I damn trusted you, Alfred. I trusted your sorry derrière, and you know what? You're not even sorry!"

In his hazy and clouded mind, Arthur barely even registered that the name had even come up. And even when he did so, all it brought was some vague sense if happiness and euphoria—something to which Arthur clung quite desperately, but which he did not have the energy nor capacity to analyze further at that moment, too preoccupied with holding back his pained cries.

When Francis had been spent, he had pulled out immediately and wordlessly stumbled out of the room, leaving Arthur as a wasted slump on the bed, knees tucked underneath them in an achingly strained position, but he was far too pained and exhausted to move out of it. The tears had also started to flow profusely, accompanied by only soft whimpers and minimal shaking (for any further movement hurt Arthur too much for the actor to stomach). The tears came down his cheeks in a constant stream, and Arthur buried his face in the mattress until the sheets were soaked through, the salty droplets mingling with the viscous blood until the white was stained pink—such an innocent color to result from such a depraved act.

It felt like hours before Francis finally returned, at which point Arthur had gradually crumbled down and curled up into a ball amidst all the fluffy sheets. His eyes were closed, his breathing light and less erratic now, though Francis could still see the flushed redness of the actor's cheeks, glistening with fresh tears.

"Arthur," Francis murmured, eyebrows creasing as he sat himself back down on the bed and wearily lit a cigarette. The actor showed no signs of acknowledgement, and so Francis tried again, a but more gently and earnestly this time.

Arthur shifted to turn his head away from Francis, the blaring pain of his rectum needing no further reminder of why it was broken. Arthur was sure his skin was torn in multiple places, and speaking to the man who caused such wounds and lacerations was the last thing he wanted to do at the present—or ever, for that matter.

Sighing, the Frenchman didn't bother to pour a glass as he took the whole bottle of his remaining wine and swigged a large gulp. He had sobered up slightly from his emotional highs, and this guilt that came in the wake of such lucidity was something he never wanted to deal with—because that was what Francis Bonnefoy did best. Run. Run like the perfect representation of his own lion charge, not "passant" or "salient," but rather "queue fourchée."

The ambassador sat in silence for a while, absentmindedly smoking his cigarette as he tried to be just that—absentminded. Arthur had been a pure soul before Francis had come along with his sick plans and twisted ideas, bent on revenge for a deed long gone. And now, he was damaged and deflowered.

But that was what Francis did: he tainted and stained, making the waters run thick with blood. Wars were always his to fight, and lives were always his to ruin... He didn't want it, but it was how he lived, the only life he had ever known. And the only person who had ever made him feel pure, made him feel forgiven...

Well, those were a set of cerulean eyes Francis was sure never he would never see shine at him ever again—and by whose fault, both of them still could not tell.

"Désolé," Francis murmured softly before getting up. "I am sorry."

The Frenchman took the bottle with him as he left once again, face set in a somber expression. He did not make a move to touch Arthur, and for that, the actor was infinitely grateful. He didn't want to be further tainted by Francis's touch. His... soft, caressing touch. Arthur wasn't sure if rape was supposed to be so gentle, all bleeding aside. It was confusing, and the actor hated to be confused.

Anything from a few minutes to a couple hours later, Arthur managed to drag himself silently off of the bed and trudge shakily to the bathroom. He still wanted to make it back for dinner. Make it back to Alfred.

* * *

The next morning, Elizabeth was due for a walk through the Jones Estate gardens with Marquess Harrington. Arthur had risen early, his limbs still aching and his legs still slightly bowed. A steaming bath helped, but nothing would ever fully ease be pain of a tortured heart stuck in a very unfortunate situation.

The previous night had been awkward after Arthur had returned, with minimal talking over dinner as Alfred attempted to disguise his anxiety and curiosity over Arthur's clandestine affairs, just as Arthur tried his best to cloak his inability to walk or sit without wincing. The Marquess wanted to respect Arthur's space and privacy, but he was also quite worried because such privacy involved Francis—and no one knew Francis's more sinister sides better than Alfred did.

At least they had ended the night as regularly as possible, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and that Arthur's eyes might have been red from allergies instead of tears. Alfred really didn't know, so he hoped to the unhearing God that it really was the former rather than the latter.

Whatever it was, though, it put Alfred on edge. And as such, he had lain awake thinking throughout the night, rather than getting much needed rest as he chewed on his lips in anxiety.

Perhaps Francis's plot was deeper than Alfred saw. Maybe Arthur was entangled deep into this somehow, far beyond just the role of Elizabeth. And he also couldn't forget the matter of how the two of them even came to know each other in the first place. That was a deeply troubling enigma unto itself.

Clearly, Alfred felt worried for a variety of reasons, the forefront of which was his own relationship with Elizabeth. Francis had to still be after her, then, if Arthur was acting so suspiciously and secretively. That was the only connection the Frenchman had: Lady Percy.

Right?

Alfred racked his brain for other ideas, but even as the sun rose to greet his sleepless eyes that morning, nothing new had arrived. Whatever it was that Francis was doing, Alfred knew that he could only see it ending badly. And before that happened, Alfred needed to play the first move and defend his position, defend his princess.

Defend Arthur.

Though it stung with a chronically throbbing pain that Arthur did not trust Alfred enough to confide in him the truth, Alfred nevertheless felt defensive. It was foolish and silly, he knew, for Arthur was an adult and could thus take care of himself just fine. But he shouldn't have to, Alfred reasoned. Arthur deserved a life in which he would never have to work, worry or wear down, and Alfred had subconsciously made a decision to make that a reality to the best of his ability. Arthur deserved the best. Only the best.

And the Marquess knew just where to start.

Thus, as Arthur was getting ready for his somewhat pointless morning out as Elizabeth, Alfred was grooming himself with extra care, because to him, today wasn't pointless at all. It was to be a day he would remember for the rest of his life, and he had to look perfect. Well, more perfect than usual, that is.

To make the morning more realistic, and as a habit they had gotten into back when private acting between just the two of them had actually mattered, Alfred and Arthur had breakfast apart. It gave them time to gather their thoughts, arrive into their roles, and in general prepare their best fronts to present to their nonexistent audience.

Again, this had been necessary back when Francis had been actually part of the picture—although the Marquess wasn't sure the Frenchman was quite out of it yet. Arthur knowing Francis was still a topic of great suspicion, and Alfred had never known the ambassador to give up without a very good reason. This scheme had to be deeper than Alfred had realized, and the first step toward better security would be taken today.

The Marquess fumbled nervously with the sapphire ring in his pocket as he walked out to meet Arthur—er, Elizabeth—in the garden. It was an excited sort of nervous, and despite his constant worries over Francis the night before, Alfred found that he was actually quite happy. Well, who wouldn't be, if he had the opportunity to spend a morning strolling along through a beautiful garden with the one he loved so much? For a relaxed walk with Arthur, even Elizabeth's guise and her idiotic personality, or Francis and his troublesome schemes, could be ignored.

"Lady Percy!" Alfred called, vaguely breathless from his light jog over. His eyes were glued to that graceful form, seated on a stone bench under the shade of a weeping willow. Could Arthur be more beautiful?

"Please pardon my tardiness," he huffed, finally arriving to stand in front of her, smiling brightly. "I was, err, held up."

Truth be told, Alfred merely had been a nervous wreck over breakfast, trying to force down food as his mind swirled around what he planned to do that morning: get back at Francis, yes, but more importantly, finally pull Arth—_Elizabeth_—into Alfred's secure grasp. It was a gigantic leap, and looking at Arthur's graceful form now, his elegant, refined carriage, whatever food Alfred had managed to swallow now threatened to rise once again.

Elizabeth giggled and stood up, closing the book she was reading. Arthur winced and stumbled ever so slightly, causing him to fall right onto the Marquess, who caught the Lady with his lightning reflexes, letting out a surprised gasp in the process.

"Arthur, are—" Amidst his worry, Alfred mistakenly forgot his role, earning him a confused look from Elizabeth, who was still recovering in his arms.

"E-Elizabeth," Alfred amended. "What is the matter?"

The Lady laughed it off, a delectable blush gracing her cheeks as she righted herself with the Marquess's help. It was ridiculously difficult to stand, especially without wincing or groaning. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep from whimpering.

"I simply tripped, Al. That is all. Thank you."

"Alfred," the Marquess corrected gently but firmly, "You're welcome." He didn't like hearing that nickname come out of anyone's lips except for his late mother's—well, _almost_ anyone's. Those with dazzlingly brilliant emerald eyes and riveting smiles could be an exception.

Elizabeth's blush turned an even darker shade of crimson as she nodded wordlessly in acknowledgment. Neither Arthur nor Elizabeth understood the reasoning, but Alfred's life was, disappointingly, his own, and as such, Arthur would not be privy to such secrets.

"Shall we be off, then?" Elizabeth asked, hoping to change the subject to something less puzzling, and to divert he attention away from her embarrassing stumble.

Alfred smiled and held out his arm, keeping a close eye on Elizabeth, despite his relaxed visage. The girl seemed to be uncomfortable somehow, and the Marquess couldn't place whether or not that was Arthur's true state. The actor had seemed fine yesterday—well, as fine as anyone that had business with Francis could be—but perhaps Alfred simply hadn't been watching closely enough. Or maybe he was watching too closely now, not that he minded, when there was something so enchanting to be seen.

Elizabeth gratefully took the Marquess's arm and smiled sweetly as they began to walk.

"Are you enjoying your book?" Alfred asked lightly, trying to disguise his worried eyebrow crease behind small conversation. Was it him, or was Arthur actually leaning quite heavily on Alfred as they walked? No, it was probably just Francis-induced paranoia. The bastard.

Elizabeth nodded, smiling. "Oh yes! It is quite interesting. Thank you for the recommendation, Alfred." Elizabeth reveled in the feel of that name rolling off her tongue. Though she had had that privilege for a few weeks now, she never tired of it. Alfred. She could call him _Alfred_. And Arthur wasn't even sure if the happiness Elizabeth was feeling was merely actually an extension of his own; it was such a wonderful name and a fantastic privilege.

Alfred laughed. "You are quite welcome, m'lady." His eyes twinkled. "I had a feeling you"—and by that, he meant Arthur—"would enjoy it." Alfred was fast coming to learn that the two of them shared quite a lot in literature preferences.

As they walked, the Marquess guided Elizabeth around, showing her various parts of horticultural significance in his vast and magnificent garden. And as Elizabeth uttered various exclamations of wonderment at its beauty, all Alfred could do was stare and silently wonder at _her_ beauty instead—well, the beauty that lay underneath that dress and makeup.

Arthur never failed to look stunning, no matter what he wore or how he acted. Alfred's eyes were always dragged back to the actor's face, however far they strayed. It was definitely nothing to complain about, for Alfred was sure he could be content for the rest of his life even if he only could see that one face. Arthur would always be enough. More than enough.

And as Alfred fumbled with the sapphire ring in his pocket, all he could think about was what a lucky guy he was that "more than enough" was walking right beside him—and if all went according to plan, such perfection would continue to be by his side for at least a few more years to come. This was a long term job, after all, and neither wanted to think about how it would end just yet.

They finally rounded a row of hedges, and Arthur found himself once again at the entrance to Paradise Lost. Elizabeth had never entered before, and suddenly, the actor was gripped by an irrational desire to keep it that way. This place was his and his alone to share with Alfred. No ditsy girl was going to invade it, fictional or not.

"Ah, I think I would love to see the rose garden, Alfred," Arthur forced through Elizabeth's unwilling mouth. Over my dead body, he thought fiercely, as Elizabeth's part of his mind tried to protest. In a life where so much had been taken from him—his manhood, his pride, his dignities—Arthur would fight hard for whatever little he still had to his name. He knew it was pathetic and immature, but when it came to matters that dealt with Alfred, Arthur learned by now that he rarely listened to reason.

The Marquess looked surprised. "The rose garden? Are you sure, Elizabeth?" He gave Arthur a curious glance, somewhat suspecting that this was the actor's suggestion instead of the Lady's.

With uncharacteristically hardened and determined eyes, Elizabeth replied, "Yes." It was odd, however, for her voice was flustered and confused.

Alfred judged the girl for a moment of silence before tugging on her semi-unwilling arm and walking in. "I think you'll like it, Elizabeth." He grinned. "I have a surprise for you."

"Wait, Alf—" Arthur began, but by then, they had already stepped through the hedge and into the sacred world beyond.

"All right, Elizabeth," Alfred murmured, turning to face her. "Please, sit there." He gestured to the wide chaise lounge on which Arthur and Alfred had so often read together before, and the actor stiffened.

"A-Are you su—"

"Please," Alfred begged, chewing on his lip. He wanted to get this over with before his nerve failed him for good.

Arthur would have argued, but he looked up just then and saw Alfred's obviously flustered cheeks and thought better of it. It was apparent that something was wrong, and Arthur's curiosity (and worry) on the matter overpowered his immature resilience.

The actor tucked his dress beneath his legs and gingerly sat down with perfect grace. Arthur watched with apprehension as Alfred seemed to glance about himself, trying to find the right words for something that escaped Arthur's knowledge entirely. Elizabeth, ever oblivious, was merely sitting in excitable anticipation for this so-called 'surprise.' Arthur hated surprises, considering that too many of them in his lifetime had turned out for the worse. But perhaps because it would be coming from (an adorably flustered) Alfred, things would be different this time around.

After quite an uncomfortable stretch of silence, Arthur began to wonder if the surprise was just a chance to see Alfred's face cast in such a beautiful and warm light as he futzed about, framed perfectly by the trees behind him, as the soft breeze swept up his hair into tastefully messy swirls. That was definitely a pleasant surprise, but that couldn't be just it, could it? Was Alfred really that narcissistic? All right, maybe yes.

Slightly reaching out with a dainty hand, Elizabeth began, "Alfred, are you—"

Then Alfred fell to his knees. At first, Arthur thought that the Marquess had been hurt somewhere, and had immediately moved to assist him back up. But for once, Elizabeth was the smarter one of the two, as her part of Arthur's mind directed his attention to what Alfred was holding out in his hands as his flushed face was diverted to the ground.

A ring. A sapphire ring. _The_ sapphire ring.

Before Arthur could react with any more than a blank expression and vague sputtering, Alfred took a deep breath and proceeded right into his well-rehearsed speech.

_Now or never Alfred. You love him. You love him _so much_. Let's go._

"Lady Elizabeth Percy," the Marquess began halfheartedly, wincing at the name. _Arthur Kirkland_, he thought soothingly. _Arthur Kirkland..._

Alfred glanced up at the girl's face, but what he saw was just Arthur. Arthur Kirkland, staring back at him, face glowing in the sunlight, emerald eyes open with surprise—but more importantly... warmth?

The Marquess couldn't distinguish acting from reality well, but he liked to imagine that that small pleasurable smile and that sweet, sensual blush were completely meant for him, straight from Arthur's heart, Elizabeth be damned.

Alfred smiled as they made eye contact, which sent Arthur's heart racing off at unhealthy speeds as he looked down at those glowing blue eyes, alight with joy and...

Love.

How jealous Arthur felt of Elizabeth at the moment. How was it fair that a fictional girl deserved to be looked at with such desire? Such a _stupid_ and _insufferable_ girl. Why did she possess Alfred's love when Arthur, who so obviously loved him more, could never have it?

The Marquess took a shaky breath and tried again, more confident this time, seeing that Arthur, or at least Elizabeth, was just as flustered and bothered as he was.

"Lady Elizabeth Percy"—_Arthur Kirkland, you magnificent angel—_"would you please allow me the honor of taking your hand in marriage?" _I would protect you forever, Arthur, if only Fate and our world would allow it._ Alfred grinned at Arthur, happiness seeping out of him and permeating the air with the promise of so many wonderful memories to come.

_I love you._

Arthur began to cry. He hadn't intended to do so, and it wasn't as if a marriage proposal was unexpected, but... He was simply far too happy, yet so depressed at the same instance. This proposal was for Elizabeth, after all, and the actor couldn't help but want it solely for himself. Thus, they were tears of happiness _and_ sadness that pooled in his eyes.

Alfred was startled, and reached up with a gentle hand to wipe away those droplets that threatened to spill over onto those beautifully crimson cheeks.

"Arth—Elizabeth, dear, are you all right? I'm sorry to startle you. You don't have to give your—"

"Yes, Alfred. Yes, of course!" Elizabeth cried, flinging her arms around the Marquess's surprised shoulders. Arthur had a quick, oft-held debate with himself about Alfred and religion, but this time, the other side of the battle was oddly silent. No objections to this crazy, fantastical love, and no objections to marriage either. Well, that meant God must have disappeared for good, once and for all.

... _Finally._

Arthur welcomed this development with open arms, as he squeezed Alfred's shoulders and reveled in the warmth that radiated from that muscular body, so different than the heat stemming from the bright sun high above.

Alfred relaxed into the sudden embrace, chuckling lightly as his arms encircled the actor's slim waist. As long as he thought about Arthur instead of Elizabeth, Alfred could consider this moment to be one of the happiest in his life. Alfred Jones was finally getting married. To _Arthur Kirkland_, no less. And practically nothing could convince him otherwise.

Arthur breathed in Alfred's unmistakable scent and reluctantly pulled back, though only to the point where he could see those bright blue eyes shining back at him. They stared at each other in a moment of still, companionable silence, smiling as Arthur silently cried anyway, despite Alfred's earlier efforts. Who cared about God when there was one to be had right in front of him, right in the flesh? Who cared about Francis or rape or blackmail or anything at all when perfection was kneeling right there before Arthur? Happiness was his to have, and Lord help anyone who got in Arthur's way—including The Lord Himself.

Alfred chuckled as he reached up to wipe another year away, and Arthur surprised the Marquess by leaning his cheek into the man's hand. Making confident eye contact, the actor smiled sweetly.

"I love you, Alfred Jones. Nothing will ever change that."

Then they kissed—the beginning of many more to come. And both of them were too wrapped up in their joy and affections, and the feeling of gently roaming lips, to notice that Arthur had used Alfred's "real" name, or that Arthur's voice had—for just a moment—returned to his normal male tones as those last words had been spoken.

Straight from Arthur's heart.

* * *

Preparations for the wedding began immediately. Alfred wanted to get through it as fast as possible, for as much as he loved Elizabeth, or at least the actor behind her, the Marquess hated social events, especially ones centered around him.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was ecstatic. She was so wrapped up in the magic of such a grand wedding that she could barely sleep at night—much to Arthur's irritation. He, too, hated large events, especially with plenty of people he did not know. The actor had always imagined that his wedding would be an intimate affair, with only immediate family members and maybe a few friends in attendance. A small service would be held, then a hearty dinner would be had.

Then again, this wasn't _his_ wedding, was it?

And as such, Arthur was left wincing—as much as Alfred—at the elaborate floral displays and grandiose decoration schemes that Elizabeth picked. So much focus had been placed on these choices and proceedings, in fact, that Arthur had almost forgotten about Francis altogether—until the empty carriage arrived once again to greet him one afternoon.

For the next four weeks, Arthur lived a painful double life that strained his relationship with Alfred as much as it physically strained his body. Visits with Francis became more and more frequent with each passing week, though the ambassador never seemed to lose his fervor. If anything, he drank more and thrust harder every time.

As time went on, Francis forced Arthur into more base acts. The actor thought he had experienced everything by this point, having physically tasted the ambassador's arousal many a times by now, taken the man's member in all positions imaginable, and cried for mercy as foreign objects were inserted where they definitely should not have been. And all the while, Francis muttered curses about Alfred and his own life, dark enough to match these indecent acts.

After every session, however, the Frenchman apologized, and that grated on Arthur's nerves. The actor wanted to be able to hate the ambassador 100%, and it didn't help that his blackmailer all of a sudden had a conscience. Francis was supposed to be the demon, rather than a person who seemed to be wrestling with a fair share of demons himself. It made him... relatable, and that made the situation demented to no end.

The ambassador even prepared a bath for Arthur each time, gave him salve for his pains, and presented him with more food and nourishment than he could ever think to stomach. It was a thoroughly puzzling combination of actions, and though Arthur wanted to hate Francis's guts, he found that he couldn't. Not completely at least. It seemed that the ambassador had been scorned too, and Arthur had come to learn quite quickly that it was Alfred who had done the job.

Many a times, Arthur wanted to ask the Marquess about... well, _the question_. Did Alfred "fall that way"? Or was it because he was "normal" that Francis felt so scorned and hurt? Had the Frenchman declared himself, only to be shot down and humiliated for it? That would have explained the pain quite well—but after seeing Francis in his broken state, Arthur was even more discouraged with asking than ever before. This would be a secret that he would apparently take to the grave.

Thus, even as Francis became more violent—though even more apologetic—each time, Arthur kept his mouth firmly shut. This was his problem and his business, and pulling Alfred into any of it would have ruined the precarious balance that Arthur had so carefully managed to build. After all, who wouldn't be happy that they were marrying the Marquess of Devonshire? Arthur could be more than satisfied with just that.

Or so he hoped.

Alfred observed these proceedings and held his tongue. It was merely curiosity at first, but that had quickly evolved into apprehension as time went on. Eventually, Alfred felt so worried that he often was unable to sleep at night. Was it just his imagination or did Arthur seem more and more rugged as the weeks passed? Was he more passive, even as Elizabeth became more energetic as the wedding date approached?

Announcements had been made, and invitations were in the process of being sent out. With the wedding only three weeks away, Alfred thought he himself ought to have been happier. Well, he _was_ happy; it just pained him to see that Arthur's mood was growing darker and darker with each passing day.

It started with silence during dinner, then it moved to eating dinner alone, and now it was bordering upon not even eating dinner at all. When Alfred had asked about whether or not Arthur would have liked to go home to see his parents for a bit, all he received was a shrug and a painfully obvious fake smile in return. It hurt to see that there was so much that Arthur simply wasn't letting the Marquess know. Arthur didn't trust Alfred, and that hurt the man more deeply than he'd ever let on.

Alfred had kept silent because he, on the other hand, trusted Arthur to handle his own matters well. But he should have known better. The Marquess didn't trust the other half of the problem, after all, the scruffy-chinned, escargot-eating half. And thus, Alfred finally lost his resolve one day, as Arthur came back from one of his meetings with Francis, a bright red mark upon his cheek where the Frenchman seemed to have struck the actor.

That was unforgivable.

The Marquess had intercepted the actor in the halls, standard greeting at the ready, when he spied the wound that marred that unblemished skin. Alfred rushed over and temporarily forgot himself as he brushed a hand against Arthur's cheek.

"Arthur! What happened?" The Marquess continued to caress the actor's cheek, an action which neither of them thought as odd anymore simply because it occurred so much under the guise of Elizabeth that it still seemed natural now. It was an action of care and love, so why wouldn't it be fitting?

The actor flinched a little, but let his face settle into Alfred's warm hand, glad for that gentle caress. He sagged his shoulders and closed his eyes.

"Nothing happened, Alfred. I simply fell." His words were heavy with the weight of the world, though Arthur sounded even more pained and tired than Alfred imagined Atlas would.

Rubbing gentle circles on Arthur's cheek with his thumb, the Marquess frowned. "You fell on one specific part of your cheek and nothing else?" Alfred asked skeptically and somewhat impatiently. He hadn't intended to sound snappish, but he was already edging to head over to Le Chateau and give Francis a piece of his mind—and maybe a piece of his fist as well in return.

Arthur shook his head, rubbing it further into that warm and soothing hand. "Really, nothing happened," he murmured. "Just leave it, please."

The Marquess's frown deepened. "Arthur, I can't just—" Any further words died on Alfred's lips, for it was then that Arthur fainted right into his arms.

* * *

The actor came to several hours later, finding himself lying in a bed that wasn't quite so foreign anymore. He had been here once, he registered, as he blinked the initial blurriness away. The canopy looked familiar, though he couldn't quite place its location... something weeks ago... something... Alfred. Oh. _Oh_.

This was _Alfred's_ bedroom.

Arthur shot up, but stopped midway, wincing as he fell backward once again. His entire body ached, and any movement at all besides a minute neck roll hurt enough to make the actor whimper. Francis really had done a number on him this time, after having drunk about a bottle and a half of wine instead of the usual three-quarters. Apparently, a significant date was coming up in Francis's history with Alfred, and Arthur guessed it was the day Francis was rejected or something of the sort, considering the hysterics the usually calm and controlled Frenchman had devolved into over their last few sessions. And such crazed, passionate sorrows were taken out on none other than Arthur himself, who had the aches and bruises to prove it. Well, at least his cheek had been the least serious of his injuries. It would have been terrible if Alfred—

"Arthur. You're awake."

The voice came from the doorway, which had opened sometime amidst Arthur's distracted, gradually awakening look-around. The actor froze involuntarily, though he relaxed the moment he registered that it was Alfred's voice instead of that of some stranger, or worse, Francis.

Sending the Marquess a small smile, Arthur murmured, "Hey, Alfred. What hap—"

"I should be asking you that." The expression on Alfred's face obliterated any trace of a smile from the young actor's face. It was a dark and brooding look, rings around the eyes and all. The Marquess looked like he hadn't slept for days, though Arthur was sure he couldn't have been out for that long of a time.

"What are you talking about?" Of course, in the pit of his stomach, Arthur already had a strong feeling he knew.

Alfred crossed the room in a few quick strides, his lips set in a tight grimace that made the actor flinch to look at. It was obvious that Alfred was angry, though he also seemed to be sick with worry as well. Arthur just hoped that the former feeling wasn't directed at him, even if the latter was. After all the pains of his life so far, the actor wasn't sure he could take Alfred's anger on top of that as well.

The Marquess hesitated slightly before sitting down at the foot of the bed, his eyes carefully studying the sheets that so respectfully hid Arthur's body away—that bruised and battered body which the actor had said _nothing_ about these past few weeks.

Alfred took a deep breath through clenched teeth as he avoided looking at the actor, who could see those defined neck muscles work as Alfred struggled to calm his emotions. After a few moments, Alfred looked up, made eye contact, and got straight to the point, his voice hardened steel.

"Have you been having sex with Francis, Arthur?"

Arthur was stunned. Absolutely stunned.

Of all the things that the actor had been expecting, even questions about his wounds and pains, he had not expected the Marquess to jump straight to intercourse like that. It was far too accurate and unnerving to even be thinkable at the moment, and it took at least a minute of wide-eyed staring for Arthur to even begin to comprehend that that question was being asked. By Alfred. Alfred Jones was asking. About sodomy with Francis. _Sodomy. With Francis_._  
_

The actor opened and closed his mouth a few times as his face gradually reddened. He felt awfully self conscious all of a sudden, and subconsciously bunched the sheets up about this shoulders as he finally managed to sputter, "O-Of course not! Alfred, that is a r-ridiculous notion!"

This comment apparently set off some switch in the Marquess, who stiffened with sudden anger and annoyance. Whatever care he had intended to feel toward that bruised and battered actor fell to the wayside in the face of Alfred's wrathful wave of jealousy. Pure and unadulterated jealousy. The Marquess had always been a slave to his darker emotions.

"_Ridiculous_, Arthur? _Is it, really?_"

The Marquess gripped an irritated fistful of sheets and pulled it forcefully off of Arthur's body, which, the actor only noticed then, was unclothed. Someone had taken the kindness to begin changing him as he had been unconscious, so weary had he been before, but had stopped upon noticing these wounds. Somehow, Arthur already knew that that "someone" had been Oswald, and that, dutiful as always, the butler had gone running to find Alfred the moment he had laid eyes on the flowers of purple and red on Arthur's usually unblemished skin.

The actor made a grab for the sheets, but paused and winced as his aching muscles rebelled and screamed out in protest. The cooler air hit his inflamed skin with jarring suddenness, almost knocking the wind out of him in its passive yet destructive pressure.

"Look at this, Arthur," the Marquess growled darkly. "_Look at this!_"

The actor squeezed his eyes shut, curling up against the pillow and shivering. He didn't want to look at all, because he already knew. Far too well.

Arthur knew it. He knew that this day would come, when he would be found out. He had foreseen this moment, just as he had foreseen Alfred's hatred, though he had hoped that it wouldn't be the case. In vain, apparently. It was clear in those flaming eyes that the Marquess was livid and filled with disgust. After all, what sort of employee whored himself out so, right under the nose of his employer?

Alfred himself could barely look at Arthur's body, though he forced himself to do so as a painful reminder of what he had failed to do: protect Arthur Kirkland as he had silently promised. Alfred should have known better; he should have known that Francis's involvement should have bode for dark tempests, rather than the calm, clear skies that they had been receiving these past few weeks. It had been Alfred's own naiveté that had allowed this to happen to Arthur, and it was himself that was solely to blame for these wounds. Alfred's anger was for himself and himself only, but Alfred had always been a poor shot when it came to directing emotions.

"I can't— I mean, just— _Arthur!_" _Calm, Alfred. Calm. Look at him. He's terrified. Calm. Dear God. CALM, MAN._

But however hard he tried, Alfred couldn't still his heart as his soul blazed with pain and his ears pounded with the sound of rushing blood. As he forced his eyes to stare at Arthur's battered body, with the knowledge that those wounds had likely been caused by sexual intercourse (Arthur's inner trousers had been suggestively stained when they had been removed earlier), Alfred felt like he wanted to punch several walls. He wanted to hurt himself just as he had hurt Arthur, just to experience some of the pain that his ignorance had caused his love to feel. Dear god, why was Arthur even like this? Why did this have to happen? What had Alfred done _wrong?!_

The Marquess swiftly stood up and turned so that he was no longer facing the actor. He was far too frustrated as he stood there, fists clenched. Willing for himself not to blow up and actually break something he knew he'd regret later. However, such attempts at calm were once again in vain, as after a moment of pin-drop silence, Alfred whirled around once again, still just as worked up, if not more so than before.

"Tell me, Arthur. _Did you or did you not have sexual intercourse with Francis?!" The frustration had come full on now, and any trace of reason had disappeared. There was no space for regret or second thoughts at the moment, as self-hatred and jealousy mixed together to form a lethal concoction. Alfred was beyond the logic of any words anyone could offer now._

Arthur was still a bit too stunned, spent and strained to even bother to pull the sheets back as he squeezed his eyes shut. He was this close to tears, and any movement he made or word he uttered was sure to send him over the edge. What an embarrassment this was. What a dishonor. A disgrace. The actor could already see it in those cerulean eyes. Any respect Alfred had ever had for Arthur was gone. Just like that. Lost forever.

Well, at least he no longer had anything to lose now.

"... Yes," Arthur admitted softly, a shamed whisper that was a stark contrast to the harsh tones Alfred's words had taken.

The Marquess wanted Arthur to see that he had merely been worried, that this was just great care and anxiety speaking, rather than hatred, anger, suffering and jealousy. But he couldn't. The Marquess had always been terrible at controlling his darker emotions, and whenever they surfaced, in those rare instances, nothing could be done to stop him, even though Arthur's cowering form came quite close._  
_

"Yes? _Yes? _After all of this, and all you can say is—"

"YES, ALFRED. BLOODY DAMN YES!" Arthur couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't take those stinging words which cut right through his heart. He couldn't take that look that was so full of anger and hatred, those flaming eyes that threatened to burn Arthur down straight to the core, until nothing was left but a skeleton, a ghost of the man he once was. Francis had already done so much of the breaking, and Alfred was merely finishing the job. It wasn't a surprise that Alfred was so disgusted, of course, and Arthur had thought about it many times before, but that didn't mean that it hurt any less, and at this point, Arthur simply could not handle any more of the _pain_.

Before Alfred could reply, for he was visibly stunned as well at the sudden outburst, Arthur continued, eyes still squeezed shut, head buried in the pillows, fingers clutching the sheets for dear life, "I had sex with Francis, Alfred. I have 'known him.' I took a flyer. Blew the grounsils. The whole bread and butter and basket-making. _I had Francis's prick stuffed up my arsehole_, _if you will_. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?"

Silent tears streamed down Arthur's cheeks at this point, and his voice shook with the effort as he felt frustration and disgust permeate through him as well. Arthur felt like the lowest of the low, more worthless than clothing was in a session with Francis. He felt thoroughly used and tossed about, and Alfred's cold, hard gaze was not helping Arthur whatsoever in changing those views.

The Marquess was stunned into silence, as he looked upon Arthur's shaking form. The actor looked so pitiful and weak in that moment that Alfred involuntarily took a step forward before he remembered to stop himself. Alfred didn't deserve to touch Arthur, after failing him so miserably. It was his fault that Arthur was so hurt, and Alfred would not allow himself the reward of being able touch such a body when he couldn't even protect it from harm.

His voice softened a little, however, just as his expression did, when he let his shoulders drop a little and ask, "Why?" The words were still uttered through clenched teeth, and Alfred still felt like giving Francis a nice punch to the gut—and a whole lot more—but seeing Arthur like this broke him on the inside. Arthur was crying, his body was shaking, and he looked so very cold despite the warm, summer weather. Not being able to hold that body close was the largest punishment Alfred could ever give himself for his own stupidity.

Arthur had to do some quick thinking at that question. He didn't quite know what to say, for how exactly could one explain that one loved one's employer enough to sacrifice so much for them? Alfred was _clearly_ "normal" in that sense, as Arthur could see quite well by this point, and any such news would only garner more disgust from the Marquess, which Arthur could not take. He was already so close to breaking as it was, and it was only in thinking of that sweet smile and bright laughter—which he was sure would never be directed his way ever again—that Arthur could continue onward.

His mind was in a haze, however, making it quite difficult to think. Arthur's body was still sore, and excruciating pain shot through his limbs every time his body shook with fresh tears. The actor wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear, and he felt so much self-loathing at the moment that it was difficult to concentrate on anything else other than all the negativity.

Alfred's expression hardened once again as he crossed his arms impatiently. His voice was deadly quiet but still just as firm as he repeated once again, "_Why_, Arthur." It was no longer even a question, but a demand for an answer, a reason why Alfred shouldn't fire Arthur right on the spot, it seemed. The actor couldn't bear it anymore. He couldn't deal with the pain, couldn't cope with the sadness, couldn't stomach the frustration and hurt that threatened to burst open his heart. He wanted to scream, let the pain tear from his throat as he released his demented sorrows into the world. Arthur Kirkland had nothing left to lose, and by god, was he going to go down with this ship, by his choice or not.

"Why, Alfred?" Arthur repeated through clenched teeth of his own. "_Why?_"'

Alfred glanced over, caught by the sound of Arthur's tone. There was so much anger in those words, almost as if questioning that Alfred had even had the audacity to ask such a ridiculous question. The Marquess immediately felt regret course through him, vying with the anger and jealousy for purchase in his heart and in his conscience. After all, it was obvious why, wasn't it? Francis, the sick, twisted bastard of a frog, had obviously raped Arthur, and the poor actor was now merely stuck in this cycle, unable to escape from the ambassador's toxic touch. Alfred had already reached this conclusion on his own even before Arthur had awoken, so why was he stubborn, stupid and masochistic enough to still—

"Because I love him, Alfred."

Wait. _Wait_. "_What__?_"

"_Francis,_ Alfred," Arthur spat out angrily. "I had intercourse with him because _I love him_, as people in love are wont to do."

Alfred thought he had arrived at a sound conclusion before, but then again, perhaps he had also arrived at the wrong idea altogether.

Very, _very_ wrong indeed.

* * *

**References/Notes: **

1. "charge," as in "lion charge," means an emblem, usually as part of a crest or a shield. Look up lions and their meanings in regards to heraldry if you are further interested in representations and significance. "Passant" and "salient" are both strong symbolic representations, where as "queue fourchée" is one of the many ways a lion's tail can be depicted to represent cowardice. In case you can't tell, I like crests. A lot.

2. Those euphemisms that Arthur used to describe sex are all true sex euphemisms from the 1800s. God, I love looking at weird phrases from history, and looking at the slang for sex euphemisms is often one of the best ways to learn about a culture and what it valued/what was relevant at the time. I'm weird for thinking that, I know. But it's true.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

You know I want to apologize. I want to apologize so much, all the time, for everything: for being late, for being inactive, for having a life, and for _still failing to reply to everything_. I've been chipping away at things a little at a time, and I swear I _am_ making progress. There are just a lot of messages to get through.

I'm sorry that you had to sit through that FrUK. I had to sit through writing it, too, and that was one of the reasons that this chapter took me so long to get up and running. I had to stop every half hour or so and go prancing off into USUK land for hours before I could retrieve enough of my sanity back to return and continue writing/editing.

Even though I have yet to reply to everything, I urge you to keep sending messages and reviews my way! I have read through everything so far, though I've yet to have a chance to reply, I know. And they make me so happy to read, and in no way do they inconvenience me or something. Even if you say to not reply to your message, I will, simply because I want to talk to you! You guys are the highlight of my life, the reason why I strive so hard to write, and write _well_, for that matter. Or at least to the best of my abilities. And I can never thank you enough for giving me so much help and inspiration!

In other news, every time I write "seductive ambassador" or "lascivious ambassador" or anything else along those lines, I always think about England instead, since he is the Erotic Ambassador of the World, after all. *wink wonk*

Last but not least, oh my god. I have fanart, guys. FANART. And it's so damn beautiful that I am practically crying from joy. You guys are such wonderful artists, and I get so much inspiration from these art pieces for bot this fic and for my assassin Arthur ask blog as well. If you guys want to see it, I have the links up under the "A Not-So-Classic Romance" section of my profile page. Please, do go check it out! It's really, _really_ good. =3=

I love you guys so much!  
Galythia

P.S. Good news! I am so disgusted with the FrUK that I am cutting that section short. You can expect very little FrUK from hereon out, so the worst of that storm has passed (I can't say how it's going to be for the the other tempests to come, however).


	13. The End of the Line

_"The love that lasts the longest is the love that is never returned."_

- William Somerset Maugham -

* * *

**.: 12. The End of the Line :.**

* * *

"Come again?" Alfred asked blankly, staring at Arthur's bitter yet tearstained visage. That expression was not one of love, no matter what Arthur said. Alfred would know, considering he often possessed a loving countenance in the past when he stared at this very same actor before him. Thus, Alfred knew that there was _no way_ that Arthur loved Francis, especially with that look. No.

No, no, no, no, no.

Arthur swallowed. Quick thinking had led him to the idea that this lie would be the best course of action. Arthur had already garnered Alfred's disgust and hatred by having sexual relations with members of the same sex, so he had nothing to lose by this lie; perhaps he even had something to gain if Alfred thought he was laying with Francis out of love rather than wanton desire or some other darker motives. Well, whatever little respect _that_ would get him.

This way, though, Arthur would also push any suspicions away from his own ardent love for the Marquess, because if Alfred had that scornful expression on his face now, Arthur didn't even want to imagine what it would be like if Alfred actually knew the truth.

But of course this lie hurt. It had grated along Arthur's teeth as it had slipped past his lips, and part of the actor still wished to take it back. But then what would he say? "Alfred I love you, and I have given up my own religion and anal virginity just to protect you?" Highly believable. Not at all awkward and alienating. Right.

Loving Francis was simply the best way. _It really is_, Arthur repeated to himself, even as his lips quivered, threatening to spill the forbidden truth from his mind and lay it all bare for Alfred to see, just like Arthur's body was at the moment, exposed upon the bed.

"Arthur," Alfred repeated. "What was that?"

Alfred stared for a moment before his desperate impatience began to bubble up in full force. Arthur's silence was alarming, to say the least. This couldn't be the truth. There was absolutely no way that this was the truth. Arthur had to be lying. He _had_ to. Arthur didn't—couldn't—love Francis. Or any man, for that matter. Arthur simply did _not_ lean "that way." They had already established this. Many times. Over and over again.

Right?

"Repeat yourself, Arthur!" Alfred commanded in his full aristocratic power, his voice cracking with desperation and stupefaction. The Marquess had never used this tone with Arthur before, and it served to clear the actor's mind rather than terrify him. Arthur had the moment of lucidity he needed to gather his strength and stick to the most demented and twisted lie that he had ever told.

"I love him, Alfred," Arthur spoke, harsher than he had intended, but he was impatient for this humiliation to be over. "_I already told you, Francis is my—_"

Oh, no. Not _this_ farce again.

"Cease this tomfoolery, Arthur!" Alfred snapped, his voice at the height of its awful majesty, stunning the actor into silence. "Just take a look at yourself!"

In a sudden fit of rage, spurred by just how ridiculous this situation was turning out to be, the Marquess reached over and grabbed the actor by his chin, jerking his face around so that Arthur could look nowhere but at his own bruised figure.

Arthur winced, his cheeks smushed between Alfred's forceful fingers. He released a startled cry of pain, but Alfred was at the end of his patience. Thus, those beseeching whimpers fell to deaf ears—ears which were too busy listening to the pounding of rushing blood and the echoes of one word repeating itself over and over in Alfred's mind:

**No.**

"Arthur, how stupid do you think I am? _Does this look like the result of a loving relationship?!_"

Arthur tried to struggle out of the vice-like hold, but Alfred was too strong and Arthur was already spent, exhausted beyond anything he had ever experienced before in his life—and that was _before_ all of this had occurred.

Flexing his jaw to swallow, Arthur hiccuped. Who cared if the tears were steaming heavily down his cheeks now? This whole situation hurt, God damn it all, and Arthur would very well cry if he so pleased. The actor felt he had the right to bawl for decades after the events of these past weeks, as if things hadn't already been bad enough before Alfred found out about this darker double life. Triple life. Whatever the number was.

Feebly, the actor tried once again to affirm his lie, his words muffled as they came through squished lips. "Not every relationship... can be like the loving... _joke_ you have... with Elizabeth..."

Alfred's eyes narrowed and his grip tightened, nails gouging into Arthur's soft skin. His mind was too far gone in the depths of hopeless rage and jealousy—not to mention desperation—to register fully that he was almost choking Arthur with his strength.

"What does Elizabeth even have to do with this Arthur?" Alfred growled. "Don't you _speak_ of her." Lady Percy was the last name Alfred wanted to hear at that moment, or ever, if he could have his way.

But he never did.

Arthur's spirits immediately fell, or at least further than they had already crumbled. Of course Alfred wouldn't want Arthur's soiled lips to speak a name so cherished by the Marquess. These same lips that had been wrapped pliably around Francis's stiff member only a few hours ago did not have the right to utter the name of Alfred's beloved. It was quite odd to think that Arthur and Elizabeth were so different to both actor and Marquess, despite being, technically, the same person. But Alfred was quite sure that any affectionate gesture shown to him in their experiences together thus far was only Elizabeth's doing, and Arthur, on the other hand, was quite sure that he had never received an ounce of Alfred's love, which was solely reserved for Elizabeth. And as time went on, Arthur was feeling colder and colder as he lay on that bed, despite the fact that such a bright and sunny person was sitting so close. However, warmth did not matter if it was pointed in another direction, as Arthur had learned, just like half the world would always be sheathed in darkness as the other half had the privilege of embracing the welcoming sun. The problem was that Arthur was always stuck on the wrong side, perpetually hidden in shadow as the figure in the flowing dress and curled hair received all the sunlight that Arthur so ardently craved.

Alfred, ever oblivious to the actor's downtrodden spirits in his current state of anger and confusion, uttered a low growl of agitation. His expression withered with further disgust. "Don't you _dare_ mention Elizabeth in this conversation again."

That name felt like the plague on Alfred's tongue, producing agonizing blisters with the fowl tasting pus that was his dose of reality. Elizabeth's name was a curse. It was the embodiment of everything that stood between the Marquess and the love he wanted to have so desperately with this broken angel before him: marriage, gender, society, the aristocracy, and now, _now_, the love for Francis as well? It couldn't be true. Please, please, PLEASE, for the love of a nonexistent God, this _had_ to be a twisted dream.

Alfred was fishing desperately for proof, something—anything—to keep him sane, although he was already beginning to pass that line anyway, despite his best efforts otherwise.

"Alfred..." Arthur murmured, wincing harder as the Marquess's fingernails began to dig in harder. It'd be moments before blood was drawn. "Al," Arthur pleaded, reverting to that name that he loved to use. It simply sat right on his tongue. "You're hurting... me..." If the tears didn't help, perhaps the beseeching tone, extra pitiful when coupled with Arthur's attempt at a prideful and irritated expression, would do the job.

Alfred's crazed and desperate eyes raked over Arthur's tearstained and reddened face for a moment of complete stillness. Then the Marquess suddenly flung the actor's face aside and stood up, making a noise of disgust. At himself, of course.

He knew—he _knew_—that he was losing it, and it scared him and pained him to see that he could not stop himself. Dear Lord, he was digging himself into such a mess; how would he ever even be able to face Arthur again?

The actor lay limply on the bed, idly massaging his cheek and neck, where he knew bruises would later appear. Alfred was freakishly strong, far more than Arthur had ever expected, and the resulting pain of such power, ever nagging as it stung, only served to remind Arthur with each passing throb of what he had just lost in the course of this conversation: Alfred's caressing hand, now turned claw; his smile, now grimace; his friendship, now contempt; his stunning eyes, now clouded over with hatred and anger so great that no words could ever describe its wrath.

In simpler words, Arthur had just lost a crucial key to his very own happiness.

"Alfred..." the actor groaned, forcing himself to talk. Now that he had started with this crazed story, he had to continue. It would be so simple if the Marquess would simply believe Arthur to be a sick and twisted _thing_ that willingly participated in these outlandish practices with Francis, rather than someone so hopelessly in love with his employer that he would even stoop so low as to pay for that man's happiness with his own body. Arthur couldn't imagine how much disdain would invade Alfred's expression then, how much Alfred would scream, yell, and rage. At least if Alfred believed Arthur to be queer in this regard, such abnormalities would supposedly be directed at another man. Surely, Alfred would find comfort in that, in the fact that at least it wasn't _him _who was in Francis's position. How disgusting would that be then?

"Alfred," Arthur started again, voice slightly stronger as he kept reminding himself of why this needed to be done. _You lie for a living, Arthur. This is no different. Not at all._

No... different. Right.

"I-I love Francis, all right? Over the duration of this... project, or whatever you call it, he has always been there. I couldn't help but—"

"Don't you even—!" Alfred whirled back around, tears in his eyes as well. He wasn't sure whether it was the result of the sour disappointment and anger in his own failures, or of the jealousy and desperation he felt to hear any words from Arthur that would break the nightmare Alfred was experiencing right now.

"Arthur, I do not—I _cannot_—believe you." The Marquess's voice shook with irritation and distress as a kaleidoscope of emotions flittered through his eyes, which he kept steadily trained at a point on the wall behind Arthur, lest he be tempted to act rashly and strike once again.

Face getting redder by the second, Alfred continued through clenched teeth. "You are _not_ in love with Francis. You cannot be. You're simply not—"

"Who are you to tell me whom I can and cannot love?" Arthur yelled back, his voice cracking. His hand was still around his neck, subconsciously protecting it as he glanced warily over in the Marquess. "I _am_ in love with Francis, and you should just give the matter a res—"

"How can you be in love with that disgusting _frog_, Arthur?" Alfred gestured sharply in the air, agitatedly making sharp angles of disbelief as he struggled to find the right words. "I mean— you are—" His voice lowered in volume and strength as the Marquess continued his aimless searching for the correct phrasing of what he felt. God, did he even know what he felt in the first place?

"Arthur..." Alfred's voice fell quiet, as more enraged emotions were temporarily forced aside to make space for the exceedingly large pang of despair that now racked the Marquess's heart. "Arthur... You can't..."

The sudden calm surprised the actor, who made an effort to turn just so he could see the Marquess better, despite the pain such an action caused. No matter the atmosphere or situation, Alfred was always a treat to look at. Those mischievously curved lips, those slanted cerulean eyes, that gently sloping nose... Although that face would likely never smile at him again after this event, Arthur was still aware of how lucky he was that that face was even paying him any attention at all. How many would kill to be alone and naked with the Marquess of Devonshire in his private bedroom?

_Perspective, Arthur. Perspective._

"Tell me, Alfred," Arthur murmured somewhat pacifistically, the words scraping past his throat that was sore for a variety of reasons, most of which he never wished to recall ever again. "Why are you so stricken by this news? Is it because it's Francis, or is it... a matter bigger than that...?" This would be the closest Arthur would get to asking The Question to which he so strongly needed an answer.

Alfred clenched his teeth and flexed his fingers a few times, wondering just how he could even reply to this. He was Arthur's employer, right? And as such, he should just act accordingly and—

Oh, who was he even kidding anymore? If the relationship they had could be considered workplace-acceptable, then the world would be filled with so many more scandals than it already possessed.

"It's..." Alfred began, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly as his mind went in search of the perfect phrase. Cussing, the Marquess slammed his fist against the wall. There was no way he could confess now. The humiliation was unimaginable, losing to that crafty frog that was always one step ahead.

"It's because it's indecent!" Alfred growled, clenching his fist. "You represent me, Arthur—"

"No. _Elizabeth_ does," Arthur retorted with jealous vehemence. "There is a difference between her and me, or have you—"

"I have not forgotten," Alfred muttered bitterly. Life would be so much better if they were one and the same, so that he could actually marry the _right_ person. Then again, Arthur would lose all of those traits that made him so attractive, such as his gender, for example. No, Arthur was perfect the way he was, and it was the world's fault for not accepting that in all its glorious beauty.

The Marquess crossed his arms and gave an exasperatedly agitated groan. "In any case, I do not believe you, Arthur. Not for one moment." His voice cracked as he tried to convince himself just as much as he was trying to Arthur. Alfred couldn't have lost to Francis again, could he? Lord, if that was the case, this would be the hardest blow the frog had ever dealt. How did the ambassador always know where to strike, how best to aim so that he could inflict the most damage?

This situation almost seemed as insanely farfetched as one of Arthur's many fantastical stories. Maybe Francis was actually some conniving faerie out to destroy Alfred's life. Then again, that situation might have been easier to deal with, because then all Alfred would have to do was take iron to—

That was it.

Not iron, of course, but steel. _Steel._

Alfred was at his wit's end. He was finished with this ridiculous tomfoolery. It was time to end this once and for all. And he knew just how to do it.

Before Arthur could react, the Marquess flung any remaining caution to the wind—a scarce amount—and stormed over to his main armoire. Wrenching the doors aside with undue force, Alfred rummaged around within for a moment before emerging with a long black case. Holding it gingerly by its ornate handle, the Marquess turned back to the actor.

Arthur stared at the object in Alfred's hand. He'd seen something similar before, though it took him a moment to register where. Alfred must have had plans to go fencing, in order to relieve his anger or something like that, since that case seemed to be like the one that held his equipment.

"You're—" Arthur started.

But Alfred only shook his head. With a grim expression and a dark fire in his eyes, the Marquess assessed the actor—_his_ actor, god damn it—for a brief moment. Arthur found himself transfixed into silence by the eerie mistiness that seemed to accompany Alfred as he moved, like some dark, oncoming storm.

The actor wasn't too far off the mark in his imagery. A tempest was coming—and Alfred was in a state of mind which desired for said tempest's rain to fall in drops of dark crimson.

They held each other's gaze for only a fleeting moment further before Alfred turned away abruptly and hurried for the door.

"Stay here," the Marquess barked in an order as he yanked the door open, his tone more biting and angry than Arthur had ever heard it before. It took him off guard, stunning him into a momentary silence just long enough for Alfred to make his leave without further interruption.

After the door had slammed shut, the actor was left staring at the spot so recently vacated by his employer. His mind ran blank, and he couldn't have shifted even if he had desired to do so, mostly because the violent sobbing that began to rack his body made any other movement quite difficult.

The actor curled up against the sheets as torrents of tears streamed down his face and onto the pillow beneath. His shoulders heaved and sagged with each new wave, his mind long having lost the ability to form coherent thoughts. He did not think of himself as _crying_—he was merely a long condemned mind, going along with whatever whims his body possessed. It could laugh, cry, scream or whimper, and Arthur wouldn't care. His mind was too lost, so cluttered yet so blank all at once. And amidst all of the tears and the jumbled mess of thoughts and emotions, all Arthur could see was the image of Alfred's smiling face, hearing his imaginary laughter echo off the walls as they sure were never to do so again in the actor's presence.

It might have been hours, though in truth, it was only a few minutes before Oswald burst into the room, panic-stricken—well, as panicked as any well-trained butler could get. Arthur didn't even register the man's presence until he felt himself being gently but firmly shaken, sending shots of pain streaking down his arm.

"Arthur, Arthur," the butler murmured, his voice subtly frantic underneath the guise of long-practiced professionalism. That tone was enough to pull Arthur back to reality, if only for just a little bit. "Arthur, what happened?"

The actor halfheartedly fought against the touch, yearning to go back to his floating abyss, so distant from his present circumstances. It was the place where Alfred's dazzling grin would keep him company, unlike the stark reality in which even the Marquess's stern and disturbed visage was missing from view.

"Arthur," the butler insisted, turning the actor over. "You must tell me what happened. Master Jones is—"

"I don't want to hear that name," Arthur snapped, wrenching his head away. He hiccuped pitifully, and brought an arm up to his eyes to wipe away whatever tears remained. New ones were still replacing the old, but now with the addition of an audience, the actor felt self-conscious enough to force his tears to stop, or at least try.

Oswald's eyebrows furrowed in worry and fear. It was obvious that Alfred and Arthur had quarreled, and it was most likely regarding the matter of the actor's purple and black bruised form. The result of such a tiff was also obvious, as Arthur was lying here, face blotched red, tears glistening on his cheeks, and Alfred was—

"Arthur, tell me what happened," Oswald pushed, trying to get some seldom-witnessed sternness into his voice. "It is very important. Where has Master J—"

"I don't know!"

Arthur groaned rolling over. He was developing a headache, most likely from overstraining his tear ducts, and Oswald was not making it any better by repeating that one name that could break Arthur's frail will all over again. But it wasn't the butler's fault, was it? He was merely concerned, and Arthur, ever softhearted, already felt a great amount of guilt for snapping just then. Oswald deserved better.

Thus, the actor sniffed, coughed lightly, then lowered his voice and attempted to explain himself better.

"I mean... He went fencing, or something of that sort." Arthur's words were punctuated by sniffling and hiccups, and his voice sounded like it was dripping with viscous razor blades. It was pitiful to see and hear him try, and Oswald very much appreciated the effort.

"I saw his... case..." Arthur explained, lethargically blinking and wiping at his eyes.

Oswald's expression was grim with apprehension and desperation. "I don't think he went fencing, Arthur."

"What do you mean?"

Oswald shook his head and took Arthur gently by the shoulders, pulling him up. The actor struggled and winced, his body aching at all joints and muscles.

"Arthur you have to get up and get dressed," Oswald said pressingly. He gave up his efforts and instead walked over to the door, ready to go and retrieve Arthur's clothes himself from the guest house.

"Why?" the actor asked forlornly. All he wanted to so was sleep, and hopefully, in his dreams, he could escape those beguiling eyes, even for just a little.

Oswald opened the door and paused, fingers gripping the knob so hard that his knuckles shone white.

"Why?" The butler's voice was soft with practiced calm, a jarring difference to his desperately worried expression. "Arthur, Master Jones did not leave with his fencing case. He left with his _sword_."

The butler's voice took on the slightest bit of fear and anxiety as the reality of the matter truly struck him. "He's going to try to kill someone."

Oswald glanced at the actor one last time before stepping out the door.

"Again."

* * *

Arthur leaned back against the uncomfortably plush leather seats of the carriage as he sped off after Alfred. The actor had informed the butler of whatever information he thought was relevant, and left out the rest.

At least Belle had been smart and caring enough hold off on asking questions, although it had been obvious that she had wanted to pounce on the actor with torrents of queries and comments. But as she had dressed Arthur into Elizabeth's clothing, she was quiet—not to mention gentle, always noticing when Arthur winced or cringed at the weight or scratchiness of the material. Belle was far more perceptive than first met the eye, and Arthur was glad for that now more than ever. He had been insisting on at least putting on the initial layers himself, but this day, he hurt too much to do even that. Belle hadn't questioned the wounds—with her lips at least, though her eyes said different.

The girl was an absolute godsend, and Arthur didn't take that lightly. God didn't give many things anymore—at least without a price. And as Arthur sped off to Le Chateau now, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he was about to find out just how costly Belle's small reprieve was.

_Again_, Oswald had said. _Again._

Dear lord, what could that have even meant? Had Alfred tried to kill someone before? And with a _sword_, in this day and age of guns? _Had he succeeded?_

Arthur's head was spinning and he felt sick with fear, worry and sadness. He wasn't in any rush to see Alfred's angered expression once again, but he also didn't want Francis hurt. The ambassador might have been a bastard on the lowest of rankings, but Arthur couldn't help but feel sympathy toward the man. They were both in generally the same situation, after all: in love with a man who would never love them back—or so Arthur thought. He still had never heard the full story, always too busy focusing on closing out the pain from his rear end whenever they had the opportunity to 'talk.'

Nevertheless, whatever it was, Arthur didn't want Francis—or anybody, for that matter—_killed_. The actor hadn't even thought that that was in the realm of possibilities before this. Alfred was terrifying when he wanted to be, and this new development shed some unwanted light upon the fact that there was still so much that Arthur did not know—that they both still did not know—about each other. In some ways, actor and Marquess were still strangers in each other's lives, and that realization made Arthur feel quite uncomfortable, to say the least.

He was in love with someone who had possibly murderous tendencies, someone he now realized he barely knew. It was a terrifying and startling fact, but even more so was the fact that, despite this, Arthur was... well, still just as in love as he had been before.

Perhaps those sappy poets hadn't been lying when they mentioned love that knew no bounds. This development hadn't changed anything whatsoever, and although it terrified the actor, he was still nevertheless glad that he was getting this chance to discover a bit about Alfred's past, whether the Marquess wanted that to be the case or not.

Nevertheless, it was still petrifying. 'Again.' _'Again'?_

Arthur wanted so desperately to ask, but just as he was withholding information from the butler sitting across from him, Arthur suspected Oswald would do the same in return. It wasn't the old man's story to tell, and as such, he would remain quiet. Simple as that.

Arthur would have to find out for himself, though he had a vague suspicion that he wouldn't have to inquire in order for events to just unfold on their own.

Although, for once, Arthur wished he would actually have to ask.

* * *

"Francis, you sinning son-of-a-bitch. Get your arse out here! _Now_."

Alfred wasn't patient enough to even wait for that, however, and he pushed right past a frantic Henri and stormed down the hallway. It was close to midnight, on the other side of the clock, meaning that Francis would either be alseep, or, considering his mood, more likely...

The Marquess slammed open the door with a loud bang, jolting the Frenchman up from his seat behind the desk. Unlike the rest of his house, Francis's private study was actually quite spartan in decor and architecture. The walls were white, the furniture a basic oak wood with a simplistic and utilitarian design. The tops of the shelves and tables stood clear, devoid of any unnecessary embellishments—except for one object: a glass stallion Alfred had given Francis long ago to commemorate their first and only anniversary.

As Alfred sauntered in right then, both Marquess and ambassador actively ignored the implications behind the existence of said statue, still displayed in the open after all these years. Things were already complicated enough as they were, without the unnecessary addition of—god forbid—_remorse_ to the mix. That emotion could very well find other, less scrambled lives to ruin.

Francis opened his mouth to say some snide comment, but he shut it immediately when Alfred brandished his gilded sword case and placed it upon the desk not too gently, completely blocking Francis's views of his own work papers.

The ambassador, usually so calm and collected, even in the face of an angry Alfred, paled at the sight of the sword case. He'd seen the blade within once before, felt the sting of its cut, and all he could think about in this instance was how fast he could move to outrun Alfred and his sword.

"Ah, Alfred. What brings you about so late, hm?" Francis kept his eyes carefully trained on that case, a precaution which anyone inexperienced would have found ridiculous. But Francis was probably the one who knew best just how skilled Alfred was as a swordsman. The Marquess's acclaim at fencing did not come unwarranted.

Alfred's eyes darkened and he leaned in menacingly. "You. Have. Some. _Nerve_." Each word was more punctuated and emphasized than the last, hissed out between clenched teeth. "You know _exactly_ why I'm here, don't you?"

The ambassador had prepared a steady reply for this exact moment, the moment when his scheme would have been discovered. He had expected Alfred to come at some point, but he hadn't predicted that... well, that Alfred's old love for him had been already pushed aside, replaced by a newfound passion for someone else. A _strong_ passion, at that.

The last time the Marquess had brandished his steel, it was in jealous rage, spurred by his ardent and covetous feelings for Francis. The ambassador never thought that he'd see the blade again, especially in this situation. He never thought Alfred would come to love someone so strongly ever again, and honestly, he found it quite unfair—because Francis knew he, on the other hand, would never recover like Alfred had from the shattered remains of what the pair of them once was. The wound had been too deep.

The scar on his left shoulder could prove it.

And now, right when his bravery and strength was needed most, Francis's courage escaped him, as it was wont to do in situations like this. His mouth ran dry, hips lips chapped as he fought to find the words that he had practiced so well in the past. But just as he was staring at that black case, it was staring right back at him. With eyes that _cut_.

"Alfred... Je..."

"Don't you even _dare_ speak in French. You are in the Queen's country, so you _speak the Queen's language_." Alfred was so worked up that he was practically spitting his words, despite the lack of importance to what he was saying. Alfred could yell about anything at the present moment.

"Now tell me, Francis, why is my— my— my _employee_ lying on my bed with bruises all over his body?!"

The Frenchman raised one eyebrow, unable to help himself. Alfred's bed? Had they really moved that quickly? If so, why was Alfred still being so callous as to call Arthur still a mere worker, despite all of that "experience"?

"Your 'employee'?" the Frenchman questioned carefully, finally moving his eyes from the case to the Marquess's face. "Really?"

His stupid curiosity was sure to get him killed some day. And looking at the situation right then, that was not an exaggeration in any form, or even far removed from the realm of immediate possibilities.

Alfred pursed his lips. "Employee, yes," he repeated irritatedly. The Marquess didn't need to be reminded of the fact that he had been scorned, and that Arthur, ever straight and true in his sexual preferences, had finally deviated. For _this frog_, no less.

Alfred's jealous rage burned bright red, the embers of the fire glowing ever more as it mixed with the Marquess's growing pit of depression. Where had he gone wrong when Francis—of all people—had gone right?

"I can assure you that I am completely serious, Francis. You better explain your—"

"Alfred. Listen to yourself. Calmez-vous." Francis was regaining confidence little by little. Perhaps if he just remained very calm himself, he could get out of this situation with his skin in one piece. It didn't help, though, that the more worked up and defensive Alfred became, the more depressed Francis became in return. The Frenchman had sensed the presence of some feelings between the two, which is why he had exploited Arthur so, but he had had no idea that they ran so deeply. Thus, today marked the day that Francis realized...

He no longer mattered.

And oddly enough, that crushing realization gave the ambassador just the courage he wanted to face Alfred and his lethal blade.

"I do not know what Arthur told you, so I cannot explain furzer," Francis elaborated, his voice stronger.

Clearing his throat, the Frenchman stood up, surprising Alfred, who had seen the man's pale visage only moments before. Alfred thought he had won then, but as always, the ambassador came back with further surprises up his sleeve. Well, two could definitely play that game—but Alfred thirsted for frog blood too much to even have the patience for _that_ song and dance.

With his free hand, he seized the ambassador by the collar, gripping so tightly that Francis was lifted to his toes, despite their equality in height.

"Don't test me today, Francis," Alfred whispered lethally, jealousy and anguish smoldering in his every word. "Why. Did. You. Rape. Arthur?"

Francis was starting to terrify himself with how fearless he was suddenly feeling. The initial depressing realization had come and passed quickly, and all that was left was this inexplicable desire to challenge Alfred for all that he was worth. Call it bravery, stupidity, or perhaps...

His valiant last stand.

"I did not rape Arthur," Francis murmured placatingly, using his practiced ambassador voice—a load of good _that'd_ do, they both knew. It was more to tick Alfred off than anything else, anyway. "He came out of his own volition."

Alfred searched Francis's eyes for any sign of a lie, but both of them were well-practiced politicians, belonging to a realm in which lies and truths were one and the same; anything was whatever you made it out to be.

Thus, the Marquess's search was fruitless, and after a moment, he released Francis's shirt in frustration, flinging the man aside like he had Arthur's face not so long ago. Alarms were ringing in Alfred's mind, urging him to stop this madness and think, lest he repeated the very same mistakes he had punished himself for every day since their occurrence. But he couldn't. He _couldn't_. When it came to matters of Arthur, Alfred's heart lost its barriers and his mind lost its reason.

"I don't believe a word of that hogwash." Alfred clenched his fist around the handle of the case. "Arthur would _never_—"

"How well do you know him, Alfred? How well do you know Arthur, hm?"

"What does that even—"

"What is his fondest memory? His favorite pastime? His favorite color, even?"

"Francis, you—"

But the ambassador was on a roll, his voice gaining strength as he went, much like his stature was gaining poise. Nothing would interrupt him now, not even that deadly blade that had been the subject of countless nightmares in the past.

"What are his aspirations? What does he want to do after this farce of a situation with you?" The Frenchman smirked. "Or, for zat matter, what is his favorite position in order to have the most pleasurable—"

"_You_ _shut your mouth_!" And in a flash, Alfred unbuckled the case with one hand and brandished his sword, a family heirloom that the Marquess had restored to pristine, lethal condition. "You don't know any of that either!" Alfred yelled, desperation coloring his booming voice as he swept the sword up to Francis's throat before the Frenchman could even react.

The ambassador swallowed, the sudden appearance of the old enemy of steel grounding his insanely courageous mind for just a moment. His shoulder began to throb again where the old wound had been dealt, but despite the shock and fear, Francis surprised himself by not only remaining, for the most part, calm, but also daring enough to utter the next words that came rolling off his lips.

"Oh, I may not know all of it, mon ami," Francis smirked, "but I do know at least zat last part quite we—"

"You be quiet before I _cut you_."

The anger and resentment that Alfred was releasing at the moment was not just a result of Francis's new affair with Arthur; it was the build up of so many wrongs and misdeeds in the past. It was the conglomeration of all the trauma Alfred had experienced as a child, all the anger that he was forced to hide, all the times he was told to bite his tongue and bear the pain, all the times that he had come so close to happiness, only to have it disappear at the hands of death or, in Francis's case long ago, an atrocious and messy scandal that by some miracle managed to escape the public eye. This was the result of years and years of being the perfect and nice gentleman, ever sweet toward those annoyingly coy ladies, ever kind to those _wonderful_ old aristocrats who had the audacity to say that Alfred was "growing up _so well_, turning out to be a man _just like his father_."

Alfred was _sick of it._

Francis gazed evenly—or as evenly as he could with a sword at his throat—at Alfred, trying to stare deep into those burning eyes, though he was ashamed to admit that in the end, he had to turn away. Between the two of them, Alfred had always possessed more of the true passion. Francis liked to think that it was the younger blood, but he knew different. Alfred just shone brighter, was more attractive, and no matter how confident the Frenchman seemed on the outside, he, too, had counted himself as so very lucky on that one day he managed to attract this youthful Marquess's special attention.

Well, those were the days.

"Oh, you would not dare to 'arm me, Alfred." Francis's voice came out more calmly than he had expected, and it sure did not match the frenzied beating of his heart. "If you were to kill me now, it would be murder."

The Marquess's grip on his sword tightened.

"Who said anything about killing?"

His voice was smoldering in its lethal softness, and it made Francis's hairs raise on end, sending a shiver down the man's spine despite the warm, breezeless night.

Francis chuckled roughly, a dangerous action considering the throat movement involved with a sharp point so close to his skin. But he was feeling a bit reckless tonight anyway. There wasn't much that Francis still cared about that he hadn't lost already. The last of it had gone to Arthur—a hapless actor who didn't even know the value of what he possessed, staring him right in the face. It was sickeningly depressing—and Francis was a bit too up on his adrenaline right now to care anymore.

"I can see it in your eyes, Alfred. You are positively berserk." The ambassador's eyes narrowed almost playfully. "Is it jealousy? What did Arthur tell you?"

The Frenchman smirked, thoroughly enjoying this newfound and wholly idiotic bravery in the face of this steel blade, the old ghost that so often haunted him in the past. This was a freedom that he could have easily gotten used to—though considering the means to that end, he might not even have had that much time to acquaint himself to the change before it all ended. For good.

_C_'_est la vie._

The Marquess growled and straightened his sword, pressing the point into Francis's throat enough that even the slightest movement would break skin. The Frenchman had to admit that was an impressive though subtle display of power. Only people who fenced understood the strength necessary to keep a heavy blade upheld in a steady position for an extended amount of time—and so far, Alfred hadn't even deviated by a centimeter.

"I am giving you one chance, Francis," the Marquess hissed. "_One_. By God, I don't know whence even that much mercy comes." Alfred's sharp, eagle eyes honed in on Francis's harmlessly smiling face, his predatory gaze burning with an unquenchable fire. "_Why. Did. You. Do it._"

The ambassador shrugged, backing up just the slightest bit. "You have no threat on me, Alfred. This is outside the conventiona—"

"DAMN THE CONVENTIONS! This is Elizabeth— this is _Arthur_— this is—"

"Your poor little unrequited love?" Despite his strong front, Francis stepped backwards ever so slightly once again until he felt the hard wall press against his back. "Is it because I captured his heart fir—"

The Marquess released a raging growl of the most primal level and swung his sword in one rapid movement that ended with the blade back down by his own side. Alfred was panting with the passion he had devoted to just that one movement, watching the ambassador carefully as he brought a hand up to his throat in surprise.

It came away stained very slightly with crimson.

Francis stared in surprise at Alfred, wholly unable to believe that the Marquess, usually so controlled, even under moments of extreme anger, had actually _struck_.

And then it hit Francis once again, a great and final wave of depression slashing at his heart with deeper strokes and a heavier hand than any blow Alfred could ever deal. _Of course_ Alfred would react strongly, blindly even. This was all because of the Marquess's passionate emotions toward a very ignorant—and undeserving, in Francis's opinion—actor.

This was all because of _Arthur._

Of all the people for such a distinguished ambassador to lose to... it had to be Arthur Kirkland, barely a tuppence to his name, no noble blood to speak of, no great orator or possessor of political prowess...

When Francis had approached Arthur weeks ago, he had no idea that feelings ran this deeply between actor and Marquess (for it was obvious to one so knowledgeable as Francis that Arthur returned Alfred's feelings as well). However, had Francis known, he likely would have maimed the actor somehow early on, driven out of his deep and dark jealousy. Perhaps it was for the better, then, that the ambassador only found out then just how much he had been... replaced.

In any case, it was far too late, and now all Francis could do was glance between his slightly bloodied hand and Alfred's uncaring visage, with the weight of his own worthlessness swirling around his mind.

This was it. This was the moment that Francis had been anticipating and fearing at the same time. This was... the end.

Alfred had moved on.

And not only had he moved on, but it was clear to anyone in the know that the Marquess loved Arthur more strongly than he had likely ever loved anyone before. Beyond his few friends, beyond even his own mother—and, of course, beyond Francis Bonnefoy himself.

If the ambassador hadn't been sure before, he was absolutely positive now of where he stood in Alfred's line of sight: so far below that he was absolutely minuscule, only visible insofar as a beetle was recognized after having been crushed under the sole of some unsuspecting stranger. But the metaphor only worked for so much, as Alfred was no unsuspecting stranger, and Francis was not so pitiful. Nevertheless, that crushing sound would still exist as the noise of Francis's heart finally crumbling down for good—though actually, even the death of Francis himself, like that of the beetle, seemed quite possible at the moment.

Perhaps that metaphor was more apt than previously thought.

"You..." Francis began, sputtering ever so slightly as he let his incredulity wash over him. "Alfred, do you comprehend—"

"I don't care, Francis," the Marquess spat, his accent having taken on full American tones long ago. "I know exactly what I just did." Alfred also knew that now he had done that, there was no going back. His bitter despair and jealousy had gotten the better of him, and Alfred had jumped into something that was now unavoidable.

Then again, his mind was also far too gone to care.

Outside the realms of a formal duel, such a blow could have been easily considered a crime. Charges could have been pressed, the law could have become involved—but such petty conventions were for lesser men. The aristocracy played by their own rules, held themselves above the rest, and no matter how much they both hated it sometime, Alfred and Francis considered themselves to be very much a part of the distinct and distinguished nobility.

Thus, Alfred took a deep breath before he turned his sharp eyes upon Francis once again. In that moment, the Marquess looked far more like his father than he rarely had ever before, completely fitting to the role of the true son of the Devil Duke.

"Francis Bonnefoy, _ambassadeur extraordinaire et plénipotentiaire_," the Marquess began, his voice smoldering beneath its formal and business-like tone, "I, Alfred—"

The door slammed open, and with such force that the room shook.

Alfred whirled around and Francis looked up as Arthur rushed into the room right then, followed by a breathless Oswald and a frantic Henri. The poor French butler had tried his best to stop them, but Arthur had no patience to deal with anything at the moment except for Alfred—though seemingly unnecessarily so, considering the scene into which he had burst (or hobbled, more like).

Save for the gash on Francis's neck and the sleek sword by Alfred's side, it seemed as if the two were almost having some sort of a civil conversation. The blade was resting gently by Alfred's side, although a faint trace of crimson was barely visible at its tip. Francis was leaning against his desk, fingers gripping the edge of the table with firm ferocity. The ambassador wouldn't give Alfred the satisfaction of seeing the him wipe away any more of his own blood.

Arthur glanced between the two of them in a moment of bewilderment before he began to make for the Marquess's stupefied figure.

"Alfred, what are you doing? Francis is—"

The sight of Arthur's pained gait as he struggled toward Alfred was enough to incite the Marquess to snap out of his temporary stupor. In a mere moment, Alfred's expression evolved back into one of a wild temper so great that it terrified Arthur into stillness.

"Don't you even _start_," Alfred threatened, gesturing with his sword in a way that forced Arthur to stumble backward. "This is a matter between me and Francis. Stay out of it."

Although the Marquess's face showed a great brooding anger, his voice was hopelessly broken. To anyone who couldn't see his face, it would have sounded like Alfred was pitifully close to bawling.

But in this room, where all eyes were turned to him, everyone could see the vehemence behind Alfred's expression, and it was clear that the Marquess wouldn't stand down. There would be no tears, and the only thing that would be streaming down today would be blood. Warm, viscous blood.

Fresh.

The silent tension in the room was broken when Henri spied Francis's wounded throat, causing him to rush in, subconsciously murmuring rapid and worried French as he came to stand between his master and the Marquess. However, Francis of all people knew best what Alfred was capable of, and thus, with a gentle but firm hand, he pushed the frantic butler aside, with no explanation but a minute shake of his head. Francis wouldn't let anyone get hurt in his stead when it came to Alfred. Well, he wouldn't let it happen _again_.

Arthur managed to recover quite quickly from his temporary shock and fear (although it still strangled his heart to see Alfred direct such strong negative emotions in his direction). Summoning whatever sanctimonious courage he possessed, Arthur cleared his throat and reached out a placating hand.

"Alfred, calm down. You don't need to—"

"Calm down? _Calm down_?" The Marquess snorted, rolling his eyes. "Well, isn't that admirable. Coming to the defense of your lover, are you?"

Alfred didn't care that Henri and Oswald were witness to the conversation; it was likely that they had already sensed the existence of such carnal tendencies simply by working for such romantically passionate men. Alfred also didn't care that he had just flung words of thorns at Arthur—or at least he thought he didn't.

Alfred wasn't above admitting that he had to turn away in shame and immediate regret upon seeing pain cloud over those usually shining emerald eyes. No matter how filled with bitter and jealous rage Alfred was, he knew that no one deserved their secrets to be laid bare for all to see like that, even if "all" was a term used to cover only a very small, private party. The Marquess knew that he'd be absolutely wrenched with pain and anger if someone had done that to him.

Looking back up, Alfred's eyes softened momentarily as he opened his mouth to apologize, but Arthur was already beyond listening. The actor's heart was breaking into unsalvageable pieces simply by being in this suffocating atmosphere, and Alfred's biting words had put everything over the top.

"So what of it if I am?" the actor snapped, his voice cracking. He, too, did not care about Oswald and Henri. The world might as well know the truth—that is, the world might as well know the most painful lie Arthur had ever been forced to tell. "This is as much my problem as it is yours, Alfred. And you have just stated my reason for me. Francis is _mine_, so _stand down._"

Oswald and Henri had been dumbfounded into silence, and Alfred was still wallowing in his temporary moment of great regret, although Arthur's antagonistic tone was quickly returning the Marquess to anger's open arms.

Francis, ever quick to recover, chuckled and raised one questioning eyebrow, breaking the tense moment: so _that_ was what Arthur had told Alfred; how interesting. And now it all made perfect sense as to why Alfred was so angry. Francis had to admit, this would at least be one of the best reasons to die. An elaborate heartbreaking misunderstanding staged by two idiots and fools who were both blind to the profound and highly enviable bond that they shared.

How disgustingly touching.

"Arthur," Francis began, a small smile back on his face. "It is sweet of you to come to my defense, but I can take care of myself, mon chéri." The ambassador took a tentative step toward the actor, prompting Alfred to whirl around once again, sword pointed at the ready.

"Not another word, frog."

Francis's expression fell back from amused to passive, and though he did not betray any fear, he did, however, stop mid-step. Arthur opened his mouth to intervene once again, but once Alfred had started, he could not be stopped. Francis's words—this sickening scene that was unfolding right before Alfred's eyes, affirming the relationship that he had so desperately hoped would be false—it was far too much. Some line had been crossed with Francis, and the Marquess desired with vehemence that only one person out of the two of them be allowed to step back over it once again, alive.

"This— Arthur— You— _All of it_. It is madness. _Madness._ And for that"—the Marquess raised up his sword once again—"for _that_, I, Alfred Fitzwillliam Jones Harrington, challenge you, Francis Bonnefoy, to a duel of the highest severity, with only the greatest honor at stake. A duel—to the death."

His words rang through the silence like the final peal of a deep melancholy bell as that plank is pulled from underfoot and gravity completes the final deed of murder for those too cowardly to do so themselves.

Alfred, however, was no coward.

He held his sword steady as he hissed, "Mark my words, Bonnefoy, you will perish."

A weighted silence permeated the room, invading all corners and spaces until their throats felt like they were choking on formless molasses. Alfred's challenge had been grave, and all three of the newcomers were still recovering from their collective surprise and dismay as they bounced their eyes between Marquess and ambassador.

Francis, however, had seen it coming. He had known that a duel had been the most likely ending for this conversation, and all he could feel was gratefulness for the fact that he was not dead yet. Then again, no matter how much Alfred cursed about it, Francis had always known that the Marquess took the rules and conventions of society quite seriously. Thus, the ambassador's life had never really been at stake—for this conversation, at least.

Henri made a small move to cover his master once again, but Francis, with another negative shake of his head, stepped forward instead and spread his hands wide in an amicable gesture. Harmless, of course. Purely harmless.

"Alfred," Arthur and Francis began at once, but the Marquess held up a commanding hand which silenced the actor immediately. Sometimes, Arthur did really hate the powerful air that noblemen could carry with them, especially Alfred, who had it down to an art. Like father, like son.

Francis gave the actor a warm and far too familiar glance that caused Arthur to shiver and Alfred's eyes to narrow even further.

"Calm, mon chéri," he murmured to Arthur. "I can handle this without you getting your beautiful hands dirty."

"You've already soiled him yourself," Alfred spat back, fist curling around the blade handle.

Arthur fought back a character-breaking scowl as his heart further broke within. He was soiled. _Soiled_. Alfred had said so himself. He had said it. He _believed_ it, this whole thing. Or at least he trusted it enough that his veins were popping from jealousy, even if his mind constantly told him that this story was so outlandish that it was laughable. But the problem in playing a game with politicians and actors was that all truths were lies and all lies were truths, and there was a spectrum of half-realities scattered in between.

Alfred stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the actor, for he was already starting to regret that outburst from before. Arthur was sure to be livid and offended, and Alfred did not need to see those green eyes alight with anger at the moment.

Arthur held his tongue as Francis turned back to Alfred, his hands seemingly shown in a peaceful gesture, though in reality, it was drifting closer to the pistol he kept hidden in the cabinet. One could never be too careful.

"You wish to duel?" Francis scoffed. "I take you will go by the conventions and let me pick the time, place and manner."

Alfred nodded wordlessly, though they both already knew that the Marquess would back Francis into sword dueling in some way or another. Alfred had a way with words (much like he had a way with swords), and he had a knack for blackmailing and pushing at a man's pride hard enough that he would agree to practically anything. Thus, weaponry was already silently beyond debate or choice. But Francis still at least had power over the rest.

"Very well," Francis murmured with a calm smile, "I accept. Two weeks from now, the main field of my manor." He glanced warily at the blade that was once again resting back beside the Marquess. Keeping his eyes trained on that glinting steel, Francis finished softly, "... With a duel by swords."

It took a moment for Francis to move past his immediate regret at picking that weapon and to turn back to look at Alfred's face once again. With a small but jovial smirk, the ambassador added, "Try not to get your blood all over my rose bushes. 'Blood red rose' is not meant to be taken literally."

Arthur, much like Henri and Oswald, could barely believe the proceedings as Alfred straightened up and nodded with satisfaction. The two involved in this battle, quite probably to the death, seemed uncharacteristically calm, whereas the onlookers were internally screaming in a collective panic.

"I think that phrase is meant to be taken quite truthfully," Alfred retorted, "at least when it comes to _you_, two weeks from now, that is."

The two of them stared each other down as the reality of what had just occurred sank in. A rivalry that banked upon resentment, jealousy, betrayal and years of harbored regret had finally culminated in this result. Alfred and Francis were going to war in their own way, and it would be here that things would end once and for all, one way or another. This was a moment larger than any of them could swallow, least of all being Arthur, who viewed the proceedings as largely his own fault.

It was clear that Alfred and Francis had some bitter history that likely included a one-sided romance, but it was Arthur that had really brought about the wrath with his quick lie and undesirable circumstances. In his defense, he had thought it quite clever at the time, and he still thought so now. How could he have known that things would escalate so quickly and in such a way? That Alfred could be so positively petrifying and unpredictable, or that Francis would accept such a farcical demand for a match?

The ambassador chuckled in an attempt to break the tension as he asked, "And what will you tell everyone?" Clearly, the real reason could not be stated aloud to the public, and everyone in the room had their own reasons for keeping silent about the truth.

Alfred quickly snapped open his sword case and replaced the blade in its velvet-lined carrier. He did not look up as he placed his sword away, his expression bland though his mind raced at a thousand miles a minute. The weight of what he had done was finally just starting to hit him now as he began to calm down after finally getting what he wanted.

But the problem was that he wasn't quite sure that was what he wanted after all.

His anger had bested him once again, and now Alfred was just starting to realize how deep he was into his self-dug hole—which could easily turn into a literal grave in two weeks time.

Dear Lord, what on earth had he just done?

Alfred kept his tone even as he finally looked up and spoke, giving the clasp a final snap close.

"I will tell everyone you wounded my pride by cavorting with my fiancée, and thus, I naturally demanded satisfaction." He picked up his case and regarded Francis quite evenly before adding, "That isn't false, after all."

Before anyone could say anything else, Alfred swept around and made for the door. He needed to disappear, to have time to think, because a part of him—a part of noticeable size—already wanted to turn around and apologize. To Arthur, that is. Francis was still a sick bastard who deserved every wrong that ever came his way... though perhaps not death. Death.

Someone was going to _die._

The only other time Alfred had dueled had involved Francis as well, though he hadn't meant to harm the Frenchman then. Now would be different; the Marquess would be staring down the sword at that mess of lightly curled blond hair, and in all likelihood, it'd be Francis who'd perish. Charles had been the only swordsman to ever come close to matching Alfred's skill, making their fencing matches so famous. But Francis...

God, was Alfred ready to do this deed? Was he ready to kill Francis?

If it weren't for the anger and jealousy that was still coursing through him, or the image of Arthur's battered body that still floated in his mind, Alfred was sure he would have thrown his pride away and returned to call off the duel. He didn't _hate_ Francis, after all. He just... they were... well, things were complicated, but now that Alfred's head was clearing up, he was quite sure that neither wanted the other _dead._

Dear Lord. Dear, dear Lord.

But Alfred had no space of mind to think about that right now. He couldn't lose focus. Though the anger and rage was what got him into this mess in the first place, Alfred was still quite glad for its presence. Without it, he would have likely broken down, but with it, he could still stand strong and tall, because by God, this duel still didn't change the fact that Arthur was _his fiancée_.And Francis had laid hands on 'Elizabeth,' in a long and winding way. That was enough grounds for any real duel.

Alfred loved Arthur. He loved Arthur from the bottom of his heart, and though love might have changed people, some for the better and some for the worse, but it was love nevertheless. And if Alfred couldn't have Arthur, then no one could have him, least of all being that damned ambassador. It'd be over Alfred's dead body, if at all, and Lord knows Francis was thinking just the same thing, two weeks from now.

Francis stared on passively as Alfred walked out, silently placing a hand out to stop Henri; Alfred could get the damned front door himself. Arthur took a step toward Alfred, but the withering glance that the Marquess sent his way stopped the actor mid-stride.

Alfred paused with his hand on the doorknob, his foot already halfway through. He eyed Arthur carefully and coldly, angry at both himself and the actor for different reasons, though it all transferred into a dark, wrathful glare directed at only Arthur when examined from an external perspective.

"You can stay here, for all I care," Alfred spoke flatly. "I may be defending your honor, but you have done nothing but destroy mine." His eyes were cold and focused to a strength that was almost painful to look at.

"No matter how kind I may appear to be, I am not thankful for such negligent and offhanded treatment," Alfred finished, his voice breaking just a crack as a minuscule amount of his wealth of inner pain spilled over past his carefully constructed barriers. "Good night—though only for you, it seems, Arthur Kirkland. No one else can count themselves to be so lucky."

And with that, Alfred was out the door and down the hall once again, each step taking him away as the two of them drifted apart farther and further, physically as much as emotionally.

Oswald chased after the Marquess without hesitation, though all Arthur could do was stare at the open door in freezing numbness. Alfred had sounded so livid that he actually appeared _calm_, and that was a level of terrifying beyond anything Arthur had experienced yet. The surprises kept coming recently, and none better than the last. There was still so much that Arthur didn't know about Alfred, so much that Alfred didn't know about Arthur.

Was Arthur even friends with the real Alfred, or was he just friends with the image that the Marquess had put up as a front to the world? Who was the real Alfred F. Jones—and more importantly:

Did Arthur even want to marry the man who Alfred Jones really was?

* * *

**Reference/Notes:**

1. "Son-of-a-bitch" is a phrase that was _really_ terrible for those times. Gossip-worthy and stuff, as far as my research could tell me.

2. "Ambassadeur extraordinaire et plénipotentiaire" is the modern day title for an ambassadorship, and it's been around for quite a while. But I don't know the exact etymology, so please pardon this possible anachronism.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

Hey guys, I know I've been gone for a month, and this is a ridiculously short and uneventful chapter to make up for it, but life has been getting at me. Thus, from this point forth, updates are going to be even more sporadic than they were before. I'm trying my best with some routine, but the only time I ever have to write now is on the train to and from school and very occasionally at home. Thus, I can't be all that productive with this story. But rest assured that the muse for this fic is as strong as ever, and if I had my way, I'd sit down and write it all! But alas, I can't, so I'm sorry.

In other news, I decided on a whim this chapter that Alfred's middle name is Fitzwilliam. I think it completes the picture of the whole Pride and Prejudice thing, with Arthur acting as Lizzie and all (and I totally can count it off as foresight of my brilliant subconscious rather than something I decided on out of the blue on a train. Sure. Yeah. xD).

And UGH. I hated writing Alfred this chapter. I love him when he's sweet and caring, and I don't want him to be abusive and angry! Alfred, why are you just so kasjtlastkjaljta?! I know it's part of who you are, and that everyone has a dark side, but _damn_. This is just— how could you hurt Arthur like that?!

There are loose ends that I promise to tie up by the end of the fic, so for those of you who are wondering, this is my list so far:

- more on Esmeralda and the past with her  
- more on Alfred's relationship with his father  
- what happened between Alfred and Francis and where the Duke plays into it  
- who wrote that mysterious note a bit ago  
- why Alfred's accent changes  
- whatever happened to William anyway?  
- Gilbert definitely returns (though I can't say the same for other minor characters)  
- tying up SuFin and the Count and Countess  
- Arthur and Alfred as children  
- Catherine and Jane and how they know each other

If there's anything I'm missing, please review and let me know!

Again, I'm sorry that this chapter is so short. It's the fourth shortest, I think, clocking in at just under 11,000 (discounting A/N and endnotes). And it only documents two conversations, so not much even happened. I'm so sorry. It was supposed to include the duel as well, but I decided to update with half a chapter, rather than make you wait further. Thus, the duel will be next chapter.

Thank you so much for your seemingly endless patience with me! You, unlike Alfred, are _not_ at the end of your patience yet, somehow, amazingly. I appreciate that to no end. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

You guys are awesome! Happy reading!  
Galythia

P.S. I gots some new, AMAZING fanart. Please check out the links and see the beauty that some of you guys draw. It's _fantastic!_


	14. Heart of Darkness

"_It is better to have loved and lost,  
than not to have loved at all."_

- Lord Alfred Tennyson, _In Memoriam A.H.H._  
(written for his friend, Arthur Henry Hallam) -

* * *

**.: 13. Heart of Darkness :.  
**

* * *

"Mr. Kirkland? It is barely half past three, sir. Were the Count and Countess expe—err."

The butler froze at the sight before him. He stared, mouth slightly agape with surprise and wonder—and then apprehension, when he registered the look that was on Arthur's expression, the obvious tear tracks on his cheeks, the unfriendly hunch in his shoulders as he stood there, motionless and grim. Even in the dark of night (or more so the dark of morning), it was clear that those green eyes, often so bright and exuberant in the past, were now sheathed in a deep-rooted pain that was already gradually dimming to a hollow and empty dullness.

"Mr. Kirkland..." the butler murmured, searching for words with as much confusion as his eyes were searching Arthur's for any sort of explanation. "If you would wait a moment, sir, I… I will arouse the Count."

Arthur didn't reply. At least he had the decency and politeness enough to nod, although his eyes remained removed from the situation as much as his mind was trying its best to escape. Arthur needed a happy place for his conscience to travel, even for just a moment. The only problem was that all the serene meadows of his mind that he had come to know in recent times involved the face and the name of Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones—bringer of joy, bearer of justice, and one stupid and heartbreaking son of a bitch.

The actor stood there, trying his best to be unfeeling even as the warm breeze choked his throat and the beginnings of a light rainstorm pattered against his skin. For all that the drops were few in number, it felt like they were practically pelting on Arthur's head, drilling into his shoulders, mercilessly trying to punish him for a crime he had not committed.

Or had he?

As the butler was off waking up Count Edelstein—a fact for which Arthur felt even more guilt than he already was for his general situation—the actor was left to his thoughts, a danger if there ever was one. It was a precarious situation, considering Arthur knew he felt remorse far more often and more easily than he ought to have. And as such, a small part of him—a part that was conflicted with so many other warring sides—was madly berating himself for setting off a snowball that he could not stop. If Arthur had never lied, where would they have been then? Would they have been better off? Well, of course. Of course they would have been better off.

_Because then at least no one would have had to die_.

Arthur would have wallowed further in his own mess of guilt, struggled more under the weight of bearing responsibility for another man's imminent death, had the hurried patter of footsteps not pulled him—willingly yet unwillingly—out of his thoughts.

"Arthur!" came a voice from out of view, to the left of the door. "Arthur, do you know what time it is? Are you all rig—"

Both the Count and Countess froze, just as their butler had done so not so long ago. The question still hung in the air, half clinging to Count Edelstein's slightly parted lips. Disbelief shown on both of their faces, even though the answer to that half-spoken question was already clear: Arthur was here, and no, he was most definitely not "all right."

"Good morning," Arthur murmured blandly, his voice trembling despite his best attempts to keep it calm. He took a shaky breath and willed for his eyes to remain dry at least for the few moments it would take to go through the proper etiquette of waking someone—a _Count_ and _Countess_, no less—up at three in the morning. Oh, and asking for lodgings as well. Was there a handbook for these sorts of situations?

"I… err…" Arthur continued, when no one spoke anything in reply. "I apologize for intruding at such an unconventional hour," he murmured, punctuating his words with deep breaths, bowing in apology. Perhaps it was his practice as Elizabeth, but these words were coming out naturally, without the need for focus or thought—which was good, since Arthur couldn't spare much of either at the moment.

"I just…. I needed… I would appreci—"

"Stop this polite nonsense, Arthur," the Count muttered, having recovered from his temporary shock. He reached an arm out and pulled Arthur in by the shoulder. "Step inside before you catch a cold standing in the rain."

The actor really had no choice as his feet were dragged past the entryway, his eyes wide and his lips sputtering in surprise.

"I—"

"Are you hungry?" Elizaveta chimed in, her eyebrows furrowed in great worry, but her skills as hostess took precedence. "At least let us get you something nice to drink, Arthur," she continued, when she saw the immediate reaction to refuse flash past Arthur's tear-stained, puffy-eyed expression.

"A simple cup of earl grey will do," Madame Hedérváry decided, turning to her butler. The man hesitated for a moment but hurried off at the lethal look that Elizaveta sent his way. After that, Arthur found himself whisked off to a sitting room and placed into a comfortable chair across from the couch, which the Count and Countess then occupied themselves.

Arthur was glad for the distracting motion and movement, considering that meant he didn't need to speak. He could just let his mind take flight, lose himself in the realm of numb imagination as his body was dragged around and taken care of. There was no thought necessary, and that was good, considering any amount of thinking would have only brought reality crashing back with a vengeance.

It wasn't until the butler had returned with a whole pot of earl grey, along with a few hurriedly prepared sandwiches that Arthur had no intention of stomaching, that the actor even thought to bring himself back a little to the situation at hand. He needed feelings, even if it was just for a short while. He needed to communicate, to let people know why he was here, rudely intruding upon their home at an ungodly hour of the morning.

Then again, wasn't everything ungodly at the moment?

The actor opened his mouth, but closed it again just as quickly. He tried a few times, but nothing came. What was there to say? What could he reveal, and what, for the sake of everybody's privacy and not just his own, should he keep to himself? Worst of all, how was he supposed to explain any of this to the unknowing couple without the dangerous term of "love" coming into play?

Well, he wouldn't.

"So Arthur," the Count began at last, when the room became too claustrophobic in its silence, "it is obvious that—ow!"

Arthur's eyes widened. Madame Hedéváry had punched the Count in the arm, and not too lightly at that. It was very much an "uncomely" and rare action for a lady, but from the way the Count reacted (with indignation but not with surprise), it didn't seem like the action had been seldom seen in the past.

"Roderich," the Countess scolded, giving him a disapproving glance, "have some patience." She leaned in and whispered, though Arthur could still hear, "At least let the tears dry first."

Elizaveta then turned to Arthur and pushed the teacup toward him. "Drink, dear. It wouldn't do to let it grow cold." When Arthur hesitated, the Countess added, "It wouldn't be polite."

The actor needed no further prompting. He picked up the steaming cup and tentatively brought it to his lips, his hands still a bit shaky. Arthur hadn't realized how much he needed this cup of tea until the first drops landed upon his tongue, soothing his soul as a soft heat spread through his body. His mind immediately likened the comforting warmth to that of Alfred's firm embraces, which had come rarely, but when they had come, they had been unbelievably magnificent.

What a mistake that train of thought was, for the moment Arthur placed the teacup back down, now empty of his contents, tears were slowly coming down his cheeks once again, out of their own volition. Arthur no longer even registered that he was crying. He barely registered anything. All that he knew was that someone was going to die, he would be responsible for it, and to exacerbate the situation beyond his grasp, Alfred seemed to hate him with a passion for his "disgusting inclinations" as well. The Marquess might have been fighting for Elizabeth, but it was clear that he couldn't have cared less what happened to Arthur. After all, if that weren't the case, the actor wouldn't have been at the Edelstein Estate in the first place.

Elizaveta's expression turned utterly stricken at the sight of Arthur's frail form suddenly and silently crying before her. The Count was quite surprised himself at this clear display of unmanliness. But he of all people understood that everyone needed to break down every once in a while; it wasn't as if Roderich Edelstein had been without his share of unmentionable secrets in the past.

"Arthur…" It was the Countess this time. "Are you… Would you like to—"

"Alfred's going to kill someone," Arthur murmured, quietly but clearly, the slightest tremor in his tone. "Either that, or he's going to die." Saying it aloud brought on another wave of fresh tears, unable to be held back, despite Arthur's best efforts. Well, he was far too numb to even try. Let his body do what it wanted, for his mind had far more with which it had to occupy itself.

"_What?_" the Count said, leaning in with the most intrigued and surprised expression. "You can't be serious. What are you—"

"A duel."

The Count and Countess sat in stunned silence, waiting for further explanation. But when none was forthcoming, Roderich squared his shoulders and leaned his chin upon steeped fingers, his mind racing at a mile a second. His voice was quiet but hurried when he finally started speaking.

"With who?"

Arthur didn't even think about correcting that grammar within his head, which was a clear sign that his mind was far gone into the realm beyond. He simply poured himself another cup of tea and closed his eyes, grimacing as he willed for the tears to stop, if only for a moment. Just a little reprieve. That was all he needed.

"Ambassador Bonnefoy," Arthur finally managed to reply darkly. He didn't even care to disguise the venom in his tone.

"Francis?" Elizaveta asked, once again appearing quite unwomanly by her usage of another man's first name. But from the way that her expression (and her husband's expression) clouded over, it was clear that they knew the weight of the situation.

"Again?" Arthur heard the Count whisper under his breath, along with a strong curse to follow.

That was it. The final straw. Arthur was sick and tired of being kept in the dark on a matter that everyone else seemed to know about. He wouldn't have been surprised if the squirrels in the neighborhood were in on it as well, and were just silently mocking him from their comfortable perches in the treetops.

Arthur clenched his teeth. "There seems to be something there that I don't know about, isn't there?" He looked toward the ceiling when he spoke, struggling to let gravity keep his tears in for him. "Something in the past?"

"Not at al—" the Countess began, but was immediately cut off by her husband.

"Of course there is, Arthur." His tone was businesslike but his expression was caring and sympathetic. Arthur was a fellow man, and he deserved to be treated as such, with respect and… equality. Luckily for the actor, Roderich Edelstein was one of the few aristocrats who could ignore social status in favor of the merit of the actual person himself.

"But it would do to remember," he added softly, "that everyone has their secrets."

Well, it wasn't like Arthur, of all people, didn't know that. He had come to learn quite quickly just how much the aristocracy liked to keep their affairs and dealings behind double-locked closed doors.

"I'm tired of not knowing," Arthur said, struggling to keep his voice calm and even. As a "commoner," he knew he had no right to make demands upon those above him, especially to high and esteemed members of the aristocracy, but it _hurt_. His brows were furrowed in frustration and pain as he continued to blink in hopes of clearing away the tears.

"What happened between them?" Arthur asked softly, "What are they to each other?" _Did Francis love Alfred once upon a time? _Was Arthur now tossed into that same category of demented and scorned admirers of other men?

Did he even have a right to care as much as he did?

Arthur was far too tired to keep the guilt and jealousy from running amok through his heart, and they coursed through his veins like pulsing fire, burning and pillaging anything that stood in the way. Arthur didn't know if he was ready to lie down and fall asleep forever, or if he was ready to go out and pick a fight with anyone and everyone who dared return the challenge.

Whichever the feeling, it was a dangerous emotional place to be.

There was a long silence, in which Arthur sat there, shoulders shaking as he tried to keep his tears of anger, sadness and frustration at bay. But he had no energy to say more, having spent it all on pushing out those last words. Arthur wasn't just tired of all the secrecy. He was tired of the acting, tired of life, and tired of… Alfred.

The love he felt for the Marquess was still there, and if anything, it was brighter and stronger than ever. But there was doubt, a dark seed growing in the corner of his mind that was gradually trailing its roots down deep into his very soul. There had been doubt all along the journey thus far: doubt of his own sexuality, doubt of the distinction between himself and Elizabeth, doubt of Alfred's stance on their relationship (although _that _was obviously clear at this point)—and now doubt of the truth behind the man with whom Arthur had irrevocably fallen in love.

In a world full of lies, where whole people—fiancées, even—were simply conjured upon a Marquess's whim one fine evening, who was to say which people were real and which were fake? Who was to be believed? Was Alfred just some other actor as well?

Arthur almost wanted to laugh. Of course he was. Alfred was an actor of the highest caliber, the greatest skill.

Alfred was an aristocrat.

Arthur was pulled out of his thoughts by the Count's gentle voice. "Arthur…" the man spoke, having the decency to sound at last a bit apologetic. "These are simply not my secrets to tell."

Arthur chuckled humorlessly, wondering if he was laughing or crying. These aristocrats were all one and the same. None of them different. Perhaps Arthur had been right to hate the lot from the very beginning, and damn Alfred for having made him doubt himself. Damn Alfred for having made Arthur shun his own religion. Damn Alfred for having damned Arthur from the grace of his own God.

And damn Alfred for having made Arthur fall into a love he now could not escape.

The actor dug himself into the couch, wishing to be absorbed into its very material. He closed his eyes and swallowed, very much wishing for another cup of tea, but being far too lethargic to find it in himself to pour it.

"Of course it isn't," Arthur whispered with a wry smile. "Nothing is, is it?"

That phrase seemed to be the nobility's excuse for everything. If they didn't want to speak about it, it was a secret they could not tell. If they wanted to avoid mentioning it, it was a secret they could not tell. If they just wanted to mess with the minds of the ignorant, it was a secret they could not tell.

The bastards.

Arthur had come here seeking solace, seeking knowledge and understanding from these people who had treated him so well in the past. But it turned out that at the end of the day, they were still aristocrats before they were anything else. Everyone was—except Arthur, and he had never felt that fact bearing down upon him more so than he did then.

"Arthur," the Count spoke, eyebrows furrowing, "I understand your frustration, but—"

"No you don't," the actor snapped. Arthur had come a long way from that terrified but rebellious lower class peasant. He could now cut off a Count mid-speech. Perhaps it was a sign that he, an outsider, was getting comfortable in this elitist world—a bit _too _comfortable.

Honestly, that was his worst nightmare, but he was already in far too deep to back down.

"There is no way you can possibly fathom my situation," Arthur muttered, no longer caring for his tone, or the fact that his speech was punctuated by deep, shuddering breaths.

Arthur heard a sigh from across the table, accompanied by the ruffling of clothes as bodies shifted around.

Finally, Count Edelstein spoke, "Perhaps you are right. I don't." He sounded defeated and regretful—helpless, even. "But I _am_ sorry. It really is not my place to say anything upon the matter."

Arthur heard the pouring of more tea, and he instinctively reached out for the cup without looking. Feeling its warmth in his hands managed to clear his mind for just a brief moment.

"Then who do I ask?"

"Your fiancé," the Countess replied, as if that was the simplest solution in the world. "The only one who has any liberties in this situation."

Arthur took a sip of his tea and chuckled wryly, wondering just what in the name of God had happened to his simple, countryside life.

"_Elizabeth's_ fiancé," Arthur corrected softly.

"Well, as of now, they are quite synonymous," the Count spoke. "Working for the Marquess, they are one and the same, are they not?"

Hah. "They never were."

Arthur slowly sipped upon the rest of his tea as silence fell upon them once again. It was nigh impossible to make sense of the emotions that were coursing through him. Was he angry or in love with Alfred? Was he depressed or grateful that his life had taken such turns from what it once was? Was he resigned to or actively against the coming duel? Was it his fault or not, when he would be forced to view the carcass of a man he quite possibly could have inadvertently killed?

But most importantly, would he want to die himself, if it were Alfred's lifeless face he would be seeing below him?

"I apologize," Arthur spoke slowly at long last, turning his eyes back to the couple before him. It wasn't the fault of the Count and Countess that his life was a mess, and Arthur already had enough guilt on his plate to last him a lifetime or two, this matter aside. "I was out of turn earlier."

Being the kind and forgiving people that they clearly were, Roderich simply smiled and Elizaveta shrugged. "Your situation is unthinkably stressful," she conceded. "I can still barely stomach it. Your reactions are understandable."

"Nevertheless—"

"What's past is past," Roderich spoke dismissively.

Arthur nodded. Although grateful at how quickly they moved on, he actually felt guiltier that he had—for just the briefest of moments—lumped the couple together with "the rest of the aristocracy." Count Edelstein was not one and the same as Duke Harrington. And certainly _nobody_ was the same as Marquess Jones.

"Now tell us, Arthur," Madame Hedérváry began, leaning in with a motherly expression upon her features though she had to stop to yawn, "what brings you here so early? Surely that news could have waited until the usual calling hours?"

Arthur further calmed his nerves with another cup of tea before he managed to switch his mind to the matter at hand. There was simply so much to think about, and so little time or brainpower.

"Well…" After he had had that argumentative outburst before, how could he now then ask for a place to stay? "I just… I apologize once again. I simply overreacted. With everything so fresh, I didn't want to go ho—" _Home_? "—back to the Jones Estate."

At least speaking was coming more easily now, and Arthur's tear ducts seemed to be too dry to carry out their continual downpour any further. Progress.

"I am sure Alfred is worried about you," the Count spoke, his eyes shining with the truth. It was clear that he honestly believed in the meaning behind his words. What naiveté. "I think it could be best if you head back before he drives himself mad with anxiety."

Arthur almost choked on his tea. Alfred's disgusted and irate expression returned vividly to the actor's memory. He felt like his heart was being pounded to the pavement with a hammer, cold, hard and unfeeling—just like Alfred's eyes had been the last time they had encountered each other. Every word Count Edelstein had spoken only brought Arthur's soul down further, until he felt like it was buried ten feet below the ground.

"That is highly unlikely," Arthur managed to whisper at long last. It was a struggle to the very end, squeezing the words past his vocal chords and into the air, like unwilling flightless birds who already knew they were going to die, even before a cruel hand knowingly pushed them from their perch.

Elizaveta's eyebrows furrowed, sensing that there was more to the story than only what Arthur had mentioned.

"Alfred is—" she began.

"The _Marquess_ and I are not on speaking terms, it seems." The words were choked, airless—lifeless.

"What?" It was the Count this time. Judging from his expression, this news seemed to be even more of a surprise than the duel had been. "Why not?"

Arthur closed his eyes. He felt so numb that it almost seemed euphoric. Perhaps this was true happiness—the inability to feel anything whatsoever.

Or perhaps, more likely so, it was the cold numbness of death. The death of his spirit, damned to the lowest depths of Hell for a love that would never be returned. So many sacrifices, so little reward. Then again, such was the life of a commoner in this world, a sheep among wolves.

"Well," Arthur replied, an ironic smile almost reaching his lips, "as interesting as it is, _that_ simply is not my secret to tell."

Except that in this rare case, it was. Excuses, excuses.

* * *

Alfred had never regretted anything more in his life. The moment he made it home, he locked himself up in his office and dropped into an armchair, full bottle of scotch in hand. After an hour of ceaseless knocking, Oswald gave up his attempts to reign the master into a proper bed and departed wearily to his own.

Alfred buried his face in his hands, too angry at himself to even drink. He let the bottle slip to the ground, not caring if it broke. Nothing deserved to be whole, least of all himself, after the atrocious way with which he had treated Arthur.

Arthur, his actor, his sunshine, his love—his future that would never happen.

Alfred wanted so desperately to apologize. He wanted so badly to throw himself at Arthur's feet and beg for forgiveness. God, he had been so _stupid_.

Starting from the death of his mother, Alfred had always had a streak of harsh temper and lack of good anger management. He knew that it was detrimental to the image which he had strove so hard to perfect for a reason he still did not understand. But seeing as reputation was important, Alfred had spent hours training himself to stay calm and under control when he was younger—and it had paid off. Well, mostly.

The Marquess slammed his fist into the armrest, so hard that the chair gave a creak and his hand was left vibrating with bullets of pain shooting up to his shoulder. But it wasn't enough to distract his mind from his own never-ending list of mistakes.

Arthur, the only good thing that had ever happened to him in this unforgiving life ever since days long gone, was now gone himself. And it was Alfred's fault. It was every bit Alfred's fault. He could still remember the biting words he had tossed so carelessly into the air just a few hours ago. The uncaring way in which he had left, in a huff, turning his back on the one person who had ever made him truly smile in years.

Had Francis already won?

The truth was that Alfred was so deeply in love that he had no idea what to do with himself. It was a terrifying emotion, far stronger than what he had ever felt for the callous ambassador. That was practically child's play compared to the boisterous rapids of love coursing through his veins now. And when he had been in danger of losing it, Alfred had been unable to stop himself. Arthur was _his_, damn it. Arthur had to be his. Hadn't Alfred suffered through enough hardships in his life? Couldn't God just grant him a wish just this once?

Couldn't God just listen…?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept whispering to himself as he curled up upon the chair. Alfred felt like a child again, caught for breaking his mother's precious vase. Except that he had to be his own parent this time. He had to hold himself responsible, but damn was that hard.

Alfred had just never felt jealousy that great before, or experienced hatred so strongly. It was astounding how one person could change Alfred's life so much—and it was utterly depressing how another person could snatch that away in the blink of an eye.

Damn Francis Bonnefoy to Hell.

Alfred had wavered back and forth with his emotions toward this man for years. But in this instance, sitting by the empty fireplace with his legs upon the chair and his knees tucked to his chest, the Marquess knew that it was done. He was over it. The relationship was gone; it _had _been gone, long before Arthur had ever come along. But as it was with so many things in Alfred's life, it had taken Arthur's shining light to make him realize the truth that had been dwelling there this whole time. And again, as was with so many things in his life, he had come to the realization just a little too late.

Arthur was already gone.

With a surge of energy, Alfred managed to force himself to a straighter sitting position. He picked up the bottle of scotch, which lay forgotten upon the ground, and absentmindedly studied his muddled reflection in the glass.

This duel was the decider. It was to be a pivotal moment in his life, and oddly enough, he wasn't as panicked about this as he ought to have been. Perhaps it was simply perspective, in which a duel seemed so unimportant next to his own crisis of losing Arthur—to _Francis_, of all people. Just thinking about it made his blood boil once again, and that was enough to make him lose any sense of remorse. Francis and Alfred had played with each other in the past, had pushed each other to new levels of trickery, mind games and cruel mockery. But this was one step too far.

Even now, when he had been just momentarily in doubt of whether or not this was the right way to settle matters, the thought of Arthur laughing with Francis suddenly made Alfred not care. However they settled it, it was either him or Francis, and Alfred had no plans on going down.

Did he want someone to die? No. If it came down to it, would he kill? ... Yes?

It would have been nice if a death wasn't necessary, but now that he had had this enlightening night to realize that he felt absolutely nothing for Francis anymore, there was no stopping Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones. The Marquess would do anything for Arthur, go to any length. Such was the strength—and the demented twistedness—that was his love.

Alfred resolved that tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he would find Arthur and he would apologize. He would plead for forgiveness, and beg for Arthur to return to the manor. Alfred could put it past him that Arthur had picked Francis over him, for the sake of getting Arthur back into the house, at the very least. He could. He really could.

Really.

They still had two weeks to go before the duel. Those could very well be the last two weeks of Alfred's life, and though it was clear that he and Arthur would never be lovers, they still had to act like it for that duration of time, and that meant working together.

But Alfred was fine with that. He was fine because, as a dying man, he could appreciate almost any good thing that was still left within his life. As a man left with very narrow options and boundless limitations, he'd take whatever he could. And what he could came in the form of Elizabeth, because it seemed that acting was the best Alfred was ever going to get in the way of love from Arthur Kirkland.

It was pathetic, but love brought out the best and the worst in all people, and Alfred was a little more desperate than most.

* * *

Alfred awoke the next morning to find sunlight streaming through his window, at a level a bit too bright to be anything but noon.

_Noon_.

The Marquess shot up from his position, but he regretted it immediately when his vision began to spin. With a groan, Alfred fell back to the warm and comfortable… rug.

It seemed like he had somehow fallen down there during the night from his perch upon the chair. He was still fully clothed, and in the sunlight and stifling heat, that meant that he was also sweating profusely.

With a moan of disbelief that his day was already off to such a terrible start, Alfred lethargically rolled onto his side and tried to get up once again, more slowly this time. He clung to the armchair to help himself up, as his mind whirled around why he was even upon the ground in the first place.

After a few minutes, Alfred was finally up and standing. Luckily, he always kept a closet of a few spare articles of clothing within his main office. He changed in silence, feeling that he had had the most peculiar dream. Something about Francis and a crazily outlandish duel. How odd.

The Marquess shook off the eerie feeling as he fastened the last few buttons to his shirt and tightened his tie. It was only then that he finally took a moment to glance at his watch—and he froze.

It was ten in the morning, earlier than his sleep-logged mind had thought, but later than his awake mind wanted it to be. Alfred couldn't quite remember what day it was, but he was sure he had to have been late for something. Rarely did a morning pass when he wasn't out the door attending to something or other by nine o'clock.

Why hadn't Oswald woken him up?

Alfred slammed open the door and rushed down the hallway, intent on finding his butler. He wasn't angry. He was more worried that something had happened, since the ever punctual and strict old man never missed his duties. This was beyond rare. This was terrifying.

"Oswald?" Alfred called, peeking within doors here and there. Tino had not seen the butler that morning, which was another troubling fact. It meant no breakfast upon the table, which had _never_ happened before.

Just where could the man have gone?

"Berwald!" Alfred called, spotting his main bodyguard from across the foyer. "Berwald, have you seen Oswald?"

The guard seemed to be in a rush, as per usual, but he stopped ever so briefly to bow and reply with his highly accented quiet mumbling. Alfred would have asked the man to repeat himself, having been completely unable to understand the message's full meaning, except that the Marquess had heard all that he needed to hear—"Arthur."

The Marquess thanked the butler quite hurriedly as he immediately ran for the guest house. If Arthur was involved and Oswald was missing from duties without a note, it must have been something atrocious. Alfred felt his heart tighten with worry, though it was much more for Arthur than for anything else. Oswald was capable and self-sufficient, but Alfred was—well, he wanted to be—Arthur's knight in shining armor. The one who rode to the rescue.

And he was late for his date with the dragon.

Alfred still couldn't quite piece together what had happened last night, or what that odd dream was about, but some of it felt like fiction and some of it felt like reality. It seemed like one of those dreams that he would forever confuse for real memory in the future. How inconvenient such dreams were.

The grounds of the Jones Estate weren't as large as that of some of the countryside manors, but it was sized decently enough to make Alfred out of breath by the time he reached the guesthouse on foot. The journey was generally meant to be made by carriage or by a long, leisurely stroll, and Alfred had neither the time nor patience for either at the moment.

The Marquess let himself in the front door, feeling his shoes clack along the front of the foyer, on the marble before the carpeting began. The sound reverberated emptily in the spacious area, sending shivers down Alfred's spine. It was only when he reached the second floor that he began to hear faint sounds coming from down the hall. Multiple voices, floating in gentle conversation.

The Marquess took a moment within the hallway to gather himself, making sure he looked presentable for whatever guests who had made themselves comfortable that morning, and quite unexpectedly so. Visitors usually presented themselves at the main manor, and Alfred usually had them notated down in his schedule book, which was glaringly clear of calls that morning. He had checked hurriedly in his rush out.

Thus, it was with a rapidly beating heart and confused eyes that Alfred strode down the hall, trying to rush while still keeping his outward composure. Something was wrong. He could taste it, bitter and vile upon his tongue.

He broke into a run when he neared the voices enough to distinguish their owners, his heartbeat quickening even more as his complexion lost all its color. He would have liked to have been mistaken, to have heard those tones incorrectly, but that was impossible. It was very hard to mistake one's own father.

"Duke Harrington!" Alfred called as he forcefully opened the door, speaking loudly but still with civility (though barely so). "What brings you here so early, and why was I not informed?" Those last words were directed at Oswald, who had looked up momentarily only to turn away once again. He was flagrantly avoiding Alfred's gaze as he busily served the Duke some light morning sandwiches.

Both the Duke and Elizabeth glanced up from their conversation, surprise written upon both of their expressions. But whereas Elizabeth's was tinged with pink, fear, and a bit of relief, the Duke's was almost completely made of arrogant and mirthful contempt, with a slight hint of offense.

"Well, well, if it isn't my lazy son," he spoke, putting down his teacup and standing up. Alfred strode over to stand behind Elizabeth's chair, trying to keep his expression calm even as a cold fury bore down upon his heart. Who did his father think he was, intruding upon Alfred's estate without the owner's knowledge? More importantly, who did he think he was to terrify poor Elizabeth (and Arthur) like that?

"You have finally decided to grace us with your presence, have you?" the Duke continued, his voice taking on an edge.

"I had other matters which needed attention," Alfred replied calmly, though through clenched teeth. He shot a worried glance at Elizabeth, whose bright green eyes bore back at him, sending him a look he could not understand. Why did those eyes suddenly seem so pained and… defeated?

"Matters more important than your own father?" the Duke mused, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"First, you are not and never will be 'my father,'" Alfred muttered.

"Semantics."

"And second, as I said, I was _never informed_ of your presence." Oswald was still focused upon the ground, though his hands were fidgeting in that way that could only mean he was sincerely apologetic. Alfred would deal with that matter later. Knowing how exact the butler had trained himself to be, there was bound to be a good reason, but knowing how Alfred felt right now, it had better be a reason more brilliant than Homer's _Iliad_ to make a dent in the Marquess's mind.

Then again, a surprise visit from the Duke of Devonshire was reason enough for practically anything. Oswald had done well, under the circumstances.

The Duke turned to face Alfred, a light smile upon his lips that could only mean he was mocking his son. _You've lost control of your own estate, have you?_ Alfred could almost hear it word-for-word ringing in his ears.

"Why did you not come to the main house?" Alfred snapped tersely, placing a gentle but strategically protective hand upon Elizabeth's shoulder. Symbolism was the name of the game.

"Well," the Duke replied, shrugging broadly, "I had the intention of staying a few days because there was much I wanted to discuss with you—but imagine my surprise when I found this house already occupied."

Alfred's mind worked quickly. It was clear that Sir Harrington and Lady Percy had been together for long enough to have at least had a decent conversation, which meant that Arthur had undoubtedly conjured up some excuse for Elizabeth's presence. Judging by the Duke's expression, it had been a plausible one, for there was no darker suspicion smoldering away within those generally judgmental blue eyes.

Now _that_ was brilliance on Arthur's part that Alfred could appreciate. And if only he could have figured out what had actually been said, then they would have been golden.

"I have no obligation to inform you of all my affairs," Alfred said, buying time as he glanced back down at Arthur. There was something in those eyes once again. What was it? Anger? Apprehension? Depression?

"That may be so," the Duke conceded tensely, "but it is improper in the eyes of society to house your fiancée under your roof, especially so close to the wedding. Who knows what could happen? People might start to talk, Alfred."

"So let them talk."

"Oh, they _have_ been," the Duke muttered, clenching his fist, "they have been."

A dark cloud passed his expression as he turned away from Alfred, making his way slowly to one of the windows. Then, abruptly, Sir Edward Harrington whirled around once again, his light jacket cutting the air with a distinct _whoosh_, his expression contorted with harsh disappointment and irritation.

"And they have been _talking_," he spoke, his voice trembling with what Alfred guessed was pure, unadulterated rage, "about your _duel_."

Alfred swore his heart skipped a beat. That dream, then, was actually... reality?

It all came flooding back into his mind, as memory now, rather than as figments of his imagination. Alfred swayed a bit and was forced to take a seat. He stared blankly at his hands for a brief moment, blinking as thoughts of yesterday assaulted his brain in a series of blurred images, noises and sensations.

"Duel…?" the Marquess asked numbly, sending Arthur a look of horror. Elizabeth's eyebrows only furrowed ever so slightly in confusion before looking away.

"Do not feign innocence," the Duke scolded coldly.

Alfred was still staring blankly at his father, the pieces coming together in his mind far more quickly than was comfortable. Alfred wanted to vomit and lie down, but all he could do was lean back and take a deep breath. There was no fast route of escape.

So it _wasn't_ a dream. Damn.

And if it wasn't a dream, then that meant Francis and Alfred would really settle their score once and for all. It meant that Alfred had two weeks left to prepare before he faced one of the hardest challenges of his life. It meant that Arthur—

The Marquess shot Elizabeth a wide-eyed look of understanding. The expression in Elizabeth's eyes before made sense now. Well, the look in Arthur's eyes did, at the very least. Alfred still didn't know why Elizabeth would worry so mu—until Alfred remembered that a duel meant that he would possibly only have two weeks left to live, as well.

Elizabeth could have already been viewing her fiancée as a dead man.

"I—I am not denying anything," Alfred replied at last, gathering together his thoughts as fast as he could as he sat up and straightened out his waistcoat. "I just… I was surprised by your visit and the knowledge you possessed, is all." He couldn't very well admit that he had forgotten that the duel even existed.

"You, of all people, should know how fast news can travel from ear to ear," the Duke replied darkly, something in his tone once again hinting at that secret that made Arthur inwardly scowl once again. It really was tiring, being the only one left in the dark.

Alfred laughed wryly. "Well, yes. And better than anyone else, I should presume." He was regaining his confidence and easy speech once again, though slowly so. Years and years of training came in handy for just this purpose. Composure at lightning fast speed. If there was a competition for this, aristocrats would be the only competitors, and of them all, Alfred was sure he would place with at least a medal, if not first.

The Duke clenched his fist. He was trying to calm himself, but it was clear that he was struggling down to his very bones with the effort. That almost made Alfred happy to see, that he could hold his hard facade when his father was having such a hard time doing the same. Almost. But all traces of mirth disappeared when the Duke turned his beady but frosty eyes upon Alfred once again and shook his head.

"Are you _insane_?" the Duke began. "Do you remember what—"

"I do not need a reminder," Alfred shot back. "And if that's all you're here to discuss, might I ask that you leave?" The Marquess stood back up. "Frankly, your presence is wasted air."

Silence weighed down the atmosphere as the Duke stared long and hard at his son, choosing to ignore the snide comment Alfred had tacked on at the end. To Alfred's credit, he did not blink or back down, a far cry from the gentle and naive boy he once was—much to his father's deep, internal regret. Alfred had grown up too much, too fast.

Where had Sir Harrington's beaming little blond boy gone?

The surprise of the duel, the sheer reality of it, hitting Alfred when he was finally awake, logical and sober, was too much to handle. It was already a mouthful to swallow, without the added stress of his father's presence thrown into the fray. Alfred could do without this man—for good, if he could help it.

"That is not all that I came to discuss," the Duke replied coldly, finally shifting from his frozen state, like an ancient statue come to life. He took a brief glance at Elizabeth, pausing as his eyes passed over her gentle and reserved figure. _What a waste_, he thought, for there to be such controversy at this point. He was actually coming to like this relationship, even though he had strongly opposed it at first. But when he saw how happy Alfred suddenly was, how much more his son smiled (which was a surprise, considering how Alfred had always swore he would never marry)... Well, what man could still call himself a father and not be a little moved by such a sight?

The problem was, according to his own son himself, Sir Harrington had no right to that title.

But the Duke had all but given up any hope of his son ever marrying a suitable woman, or marrying any woman at all, for that matter. Beggars could not be choosers, he thought, and as such, Sir Harrington resolved to try and accept whatever female Alfred decided to take into his life. However, perhaps the adultery was going a bit _too_ far.

"I don't know what rumors to believe at this point," he sighed at last, "but I had initially thought to come talk out your wedding arrangements." The rest of his words hung clearly in the air: _of course, you had to be a fool and make a mess of things again_.

Alfred's father grimaced. "Are you cancelling the wedding?"

Alfred started, crossing his arms and sputtering in surprise. The idea hadn't even crossed his mind. "What? _What?_ Of course the wedding is still happening!" Alfred missed the surprised but relieved look that Elizabeth sent his way. The Marquess laid a gentle hand upon Elizabeth's shoulder once again, his thumb rubbing small, protective circles upon the nape of her neck.

"Elizabeth is the woman I love," Alfred murmured with convincing passion, even though he was inwardly wincing at the mere thought of it, especially with Arthur so clearly removed from the equation now—as if he had ever been in the realm of possibilities before. "And as such, duel or not, I still fully intend on marrying… her." _  
_

The Duke raised one incredulous eyebrow. "Even after the adultery?"

Elizabeth gave a small gasp of shocked offense, apparently not having heard the full contents of the rumors flying about just yet. It was quite a rude awakening. Alfred glanced between his fiancée and his father, and then whirled upon the Duke with seething white rage.

"I am _appalled_," Alfred hissed through clenched teeth, "that you would be so improper as to accuse _my_ fiancée of such _vile_ actions. There is no proof, and rightly so, because there is _none_ to be had."

To hammer in the point, Alfred ran a soothing hand over Elizabeth's shoulder and down her arm, causing her to shiver and Arthur to look away. It was too loving an action for the young actor to handle at the moment, too caring. It only made Arthur remember Alfred's scathing look from the previous night, a throbbing reminder of the love he would never have.

On the other hand, this was Alfred's best acting job yet, considering that the rumors actually seemed to be right for once. And that fact in itself cut deeper than anything else ever would. To be honest, Alfred's heart was already well dead at this point, so who cared if his body would follow suit in two week's time?

The Duke turned away and paced back toward the window. "I do not know what to believe."

"She is pure," Alfred assured. "I have finally found a woman I can love, and you wish for me to be rid of her? All for the words of those too ignorant to know the truth? Those who spend their despicable time trifling in the affairs of others?" he asked disbelievingly.

"No! Of course not!" the Duke burst, slamming his fist into a table. How could his own son believe such a thing to be the truth? Where in their lives had their paths divided? "I simply do not want another situation like last time."

"_What, in the name of God, _is _last time?" _Arthur wanted to call out, and it was a desperate struggle to keep his mouth shut. _Like a good little lady_, he reminded himself bitterly. This act was getting old. Fast.

"It is already bad enough out there," the Duke continued, keeping his eyes trained on the grounds outside the window pane. "Now I find out that you have her in your guest house? Do you know the _uproar—_"

"She has been ill!" Alfred replied, making up something upon the spot. He was hoping Arthur had given some plausible excuse that had fallen along the same lines. "She has been ill, and it is the duty of a gentleman—not to mention the duty of a fiancé—to ensure that she rests. Did you see how much it _rained_ last night?"

The Duke turned around, his eyes narrowed. Alfred could see him studying the situation carefully, and the Marquess swallowed ever so slightly under pressure. Elizabeth was looking down at her lap, which meant Alfred couldn't use her eyes for confirmation. Her cheeks were flushed, as she was most likely still reeling from the "adultery" comment before. The Duke should have apologized. Alfred hated his father even more in that instance than he ever had before, even though he would have thought such a feat was impossible until right at that point.

"Very well," the Duke finally murmured, turning back to face the window. Alfred quietly let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and he gave Arthur's shoulder a soft squeeze, under the excuse of Elizabeth. It seemed like any form of affection they shared from now on would be under the guise of Elizabeth, didn't it? No more reading in the library, storytelling under the stars, conversations in the garden…

How could it all have disappeared so quickly?

Arthur nodded ever so gently, confirming that Alfred had told the right lie, given the right excuse. It seemed that they had both been thinking about Jane's situation in _Pride and Prejudice_, though Alfred wasn't completely sure if that was the reason behind Arthur's words. Nevertheless, thank God they just liked the same books.

"She must return to the Edelstein Estate as fast as is feasible, Alfred," the Duke reminded. "It is improper. And you are already in a large enough mess as it is."

Alfred gritted his teeth. "Why do you even care? If you are here to tell me about the volume of trouble in which I find myself, I think I am perfectly capable of gauging that value myself, thank you. And I could do without you insulting my beloved, as well," he spat out with dark sarcasm, his voice growing in agitation and emphatic volume as his rant progresssed. "Seeing as the guest house _is_ already occupied, you cannot stay." He rounded upon his father.

"I trust you can see yourself _out_!" Alfred finished with a huff.

Arthur grimaced, as Alfred seemed to be doing this a lot recently, blowing up at anything and everything in his path. Where was the gentlemanly, sweet and caring Marquess with whom Arthur had fallen so deeply in love? Where was the sun-tanned face with those developing laugh lines and that soft, secretive smile? Where was the person Arthur so desperately believed to be the _real_ Alfred F. Jones...?

Elizabeth, on the other hand, only gave a small squeal of surprise to reveal any of her reaction. Alfred gave her shoulder a soft squeeze, though it only made Arthur want to hurl. Such sweetness was sickening nowadays, rather than comforting. Arthur could do without, if such affections were forever to be for Elizabeth and Elizabeth only.

The Duke's shoulders tensed visibly, silhouetted against the light from the window. He partially turned around, as if to say something, but hesitated and paused last minute. Alfred held his ground, and finally, after considerable silence and an unsettling stare-down, the Duke relented.

Sir Harrington's shoulders sagged as he sighed and stuffed his hands within his pockets. He turned around and assessed Alfred with an oddly calm gaze. No anger, no ridicule or mockery. Alfred saw it as a frigid coldness, but Arthur saw it as… sadness. Elizabeth could see that too.

"Very well," the Duke muttered, scowling and turning away. "But I hope you are aware that this time," he informed, "I will not help you."

Sir Edward Harrington gathered up his jacket and turned to leave, knowing that his son would not follow. The symbolism of that was lost on either member of the Harrington family. Oswald rushed to get the door for the Duke, his scuffling feet being the only noise to permeate the uncomfortably pressing silence.

"You are on your own," the Duke said quietly as he reached the door, his voice guarded, his tone hard steel.

"I have been so ever since mother died," Alfred muttered as he turned his back to the Duke, his words almost too soft to hear.

Almost.

Sir Edward Harrington paused only briefly. Elizabeth had her eyes on him, even if Alfred was concentrating on staring hard in the other direction. She saw his shoulders droop ever so slightly, though it could have easily been a trick of the light (or the fault of Arthur's partially distracted mind and wandering imagination).

"I know," the Duke replied softly, right before the door closed behind him.

Alfred stood there in the silence for quite a while, his hand still resting passively upon Elizabeth's shoulder. It was only when he could no longer hear his father's retreating footsteps that he finally backed away, ironically making for the same spot by the window his father had occupied only moments ago. There were instances in which Elizabeth and Arthur could both see that Alfred was truly his father's son, no matter how much the Marquess didn't want it to be so.

Elizabeth yearned to walk up to her lover and give him a comforting kiss, for it irked her to see him so uncomfortable, but Arthur held himself back. Part of him wanted to do that as well, but luckily, the greater, more reasonable part of him remembered that that wasn't his place. That wasn't his job, and it never would be.

Arthur knew that in Alfred's mind, he had not only picked his path already, the path of Francis Bonnefoy, but he was also deemed as despicable for it. Scum of the Earth, if you will. Clearly, there was no love to be had in that realm anymore—not that much had been there in the first place.

It was Alfred who finally broke the silence, though with such soft words that Arthur thought he was imagining it at first.

"When did you return?"

Arthur looked up, half expecting to meet those same cold eyes from the night before, lashing out at him once again. But all he could see was Alfred's broad back, perfectly lean and muscular, the statuesque contours still visible even through his shirt and vest. If the actor ever had to see somebody so thoroughly avoid his gaze, at least it was Alfred, owner of the most pleasant behind Arthur had ever had the pleasure to encounter.

"Count your blessings," his mom had always told him. Well, Arthur was enumerating them now, and all he needed was half a hand to do it—but by God, what good blessings they were.

"This morning," Arthur replied. _Just in time, too_, he wanted to add sarcastically. But that would have been childish, and surely, they were beyond such petty remarks.

The actor kept his voice light and airy, a perfect mimicry of Elizabeth. Arthur almost laughed right then. He was acting as if Elizabeth was a real person, separate from himself (though she might as well have been, considering how removed from her the actor always felt). They lived in two separate worlds. There was the rich and the poor, the lucky and the miserable—the loved and the scorned.

Needless to say, fiction and reality was the least important and least concerning of all the distinctions.

"I'm surprised that frog let you go so early." _Do your hips hurt?_ Alfred was tempted to ask, but he knew he'd regret it the moment those words escaped his lips. _Keep a calm head_, Alfred reminded himself, taking slow and deep breaths as he let his eyes trail absentmindedly over the ornate wood carving that decorated his windowsills.

"I didn't come from the ambassador's abode," Arthur spoke, gently and softly. Being Elizabeth was so much easier than being himself. No tears, no hyperventilating anxiety attacks, no incredible desire to just fall onto his knees and spill forth the whole truth then and there. They were already in too deep to return to how things once were, anyway, and any effort to do so seemed like it would just complicate matters.

"Oh?" Alfred asked, trying to keep his tone disinterested as well, a perfect example of good, high class English, an accent held by only the best of the best. This careful playacting could have just been the hardest challenge allotted to him yet.

"Thomas was kind enough to bring me back home, to Madame Hedérváry."

"Ah." Alfred clearly understood that that had meant disturbing the Count and Countess at an unpleasant and quite an unacceptable hour of the morning. The remorse—an act or not, Arthur could not tell—was clearly written upon his face.

It was funny how much more the Edelstein Estate felt like home to Arthur than the Jones Estate did at the moment, though he wasn't sure if that was just a side effect of Elizabeth or not. Whatever it was, he was starting to tire of all aristocrats. They were far too dramatic for his simpler, countryside tastes. He remembered that as a child, he used to wish upon the stars every night for a life of greater adventure. He had a best friend, though he could barely remember what the kid looked like by this point. However, he had confided this wish to that boy, told him about Arthur's own desire for the chance to go to London, to see the sights, to study among the most promising, the best of anyone that wasn't already simply born into a position of "greatness."

Well, "be careful what you wish for." His mother had told him that too. Arthur realized he ought to have listened to his mother a lot more as a child.

"Arthur..." Alfred tentatively began, turning his head ever so slightly so that Arthur could see the glow of his perfect eyes in the light of the sun, like the endless ocean on a clear afternoon. Those seemingly soft eyelashes seemed to take up the very warmth of the day as they curled gently and alluringly, creating a sight that Arthur couldn't help but revere.

Damn Alfred and his golden angelic aura. It made it impossible to remember, for the briefest of moments, that there was even anything amiss between them. For a short while, it was almost like before. Almost. But close enough that Arthur could still taste the sweetness of Alfred's lips upon his own once again.

"Yes, Alfred...?" the actor asked breathlessly, reverting a little back into his own voice and staring for all that he was worth. His heart was beating wildly, and though Alfred was still directing his gaze at the ground, refusing to make solid eye-contact, Arthur could already barely think straight as it was. Imagine the disarray Alfred's full attention would have wreaked upon the actor's body.

Something in Arthur's tone made the Marquess glance up, a fatal mistake. They beheld each other's eyes for quite some time, attempting to communicate so much in such a short instance. Regret, apology, and sadness were evident, but the undercurrents of outrage, resentment and blatant distrust undermined whatever effect the former emotions would have had.

However, both members present in the room were temporarily ignoring all of those frilly, unnecessary feelings—or at least they seemed highly unnecessary, when compared to what was trickling beneath, tucked deep into the dark tresses and caves of their hearts, locked away because it was twisted, because it was despicable—because it was forbidden.

Love.

Arthur opened his mouth, his mind so lost in that moment that he almost blurted out those three key words right then and there. But he caught himself last moment, just as Alfred seemed to have regained his senses as well. The Marquess clenched his fists and swiftly turned back around to give his attention to the ornate sill once again.

"Remember that it is rude to make disruptive appearances at others' homes uninvited," he reprimanded, his voice firm and filled with stubborn softness, "especially beyond the acceptable hours."

Arthur's eyebrows scrunched up, and he felt tears of disappointment come to his eyes. Then again, what could he have expected? Just because his own heart was threatening to beat itself right out of its bodily cage, it did nothing to imply that Alfred was feeling remotely the same way. From the calm way with which the Marquess held himself, the passive tone with which he addressed the matter, it was almost actually clear that the situation was the exact opposite.

Obviously, it was just Arthur's imagination.

Alfred heard the rustling of a dress from behind him. He expected Arthur to speak up, to voice some sort of argumentative claim against his words, to defend himself in a continuation of the stressful encounter last night. But as was more often than not, the actor surprised him yet again.

"Yes... sir," was all Alfred heard, before the sudden swish of a dress and the soft patter of shoes accompanied that distinctly male and highly treasured voice right to the door.

The Marquess was thoroughly caught off guard by the abrupt attempt to leave, and he whirled around, his eyes widening in surprise. Reaching out a hand, the first syllable of Arthur's name was out of his lips before he could even stop himself. But by then it was too late. Arthur had rushed out, and all that was left of him was a door still slightly ajar.

Alfred stared after the blank space, getting a feeling that he was seeing this sight extremely often in recent times. He was witness to it far more than he'd like—what he'd like being no time at all. Alfred felt a cold numbness course through him as he decided on the spot right then that there was no use in giving chase. His heart sank to irretrievable depths as he remembered Arthur's parting words.

"Sir," Arthur had called him.

It had been a long time since Arthur had uttered that word in reference to Alfred, and the word pierced right through the Marquess's heart like a barbed javelin. It had been a long time since the two of them had been in any sort of relationship that had called for such formalities. It had been _ages_ since Arthur and Alfred had been at a point in which they weren't intwined within each other's lives...

It had been _forever_ since Alfred had fallen in love.

The Marquess bit his bottom lip in an effort to hold back his tears of bitter frustration as he finally turned back to the window. He closed his eyes and took a shaky but deep breath.

In two weeks' time, this would be over in some way or another. Arthur didn't seem to care that Alfred was in danger of perishing; in fact, he seemed to support it, considering he hadn't said a word regarding the matter when they had been together just now. Well, maybe Arthur would finally get his wish. Maybe Alfred would really go.

Maybe forever would finally end.

"All the world's a stage," Alfred whispered to himself, a humorless smile at his lips. _And all the men and women merely players._ _They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts... _Alfred had memorized this from the countless times he had witnessed the production, many of which had been held at his very own theatre.

"Exits, huh..." Alfred mused, his eyes glazed over as he stared out the window. What a genius the playwright was. Shakespeare always knew where to hit humanity right at its heart.

As for Alfred... Well, so much for "begging for forgiveness, first thing in the morning."

* * *

Just as was reported by the Duke, news of the duel had indeed passed around quickly. At a blindingly fast speed, rumors had permeated the aristocratic circle, whose listless members were always greedy for more gossip and juicy tidbits to fill their otherwise dreadfully boring lives. Arthur swore he would never understand just how people could be left so unoccupied despite the vast wealth and power left at their disposals.

The fact that Alfred possessed an opposite sort of mentality was one of the aspects that Arthur liked about the Marquess, actually. But now he wasn't quite so sure if that was even the truth anymore. The lines were so blurred, reality so surreal, that practically anything was possible—including the fact that Alfred F. Jones was no more than a mere stranger to Arthur's heart. And vice versa.

Was Arthur in love with a lie?

Part of him lost countless hours of sleep over that simple question, especially after their terse conversation right after the Duke's visit. Alfred hadn't seemed to care one bit, he hadn't said a word to soothe Arthur's heart—or even Elizabeth's, for that matter—unlike the perfect gentleman, Marquess Harrington, would have done.

This restless part warred with the other part of him—the greater part of him—which refused to believe that that was the case. Arthur had not journeyed through a religious crisis, abandoned God, damned himself to Hell and beyond, all for something that was fake. He couldn't have.

All those smiles that Alfred had shown him, all those times that they had kissed (under the guise of acting and not), all those moments that they had shared, the paths they had walked, the books they had read, all the while with laughter ringing loud and clear wherever they tread—there was absolutely no way it could have been anything but the most real either of them had ever been with anyone else. It just _couldn't_ have.

It couldn't have, because it was in those times that Arthur had really been the most like himself. Arthur had given Alfred a look into who he really was, underneath all the make-up, underneath all the acting. In other words, Arthur had given Alfred a piece of his very own soul, and by God, Alfred _must_ have been doing the same. Surely, the Marquess wouldn't have been that unfair.

But try as he might, Arthur was finding it harder and harder to cling to that shaky belief as time went on, and nothing improved.

The initial days after the challenge had been declared were the absolute worst. Arthur and Alfred exchanged barely any words beyond that first conversation earlier in the week, and to rub salt into the wound, Francis did not allow Arthur to back down on their agreement, even in light of the recent developments. So the actor continued to disappear on certain afternoons here and there for hours at a time, and there was no pretense in the air whatsoever as to where he was going. Thankfully, come the second week, Francis had abruptly stopped sending for the actor, quite out of the blue, and Arthur was aching too much (physically and emotionally) to care or wonder why. He was merely counting his meager blessings as they came.

With everything that was happening, however, Arthur and Alfred had little time to spare for each other. Arthur would occasionally pass by Alfred's study, on his way to a meeting with the Countess, for example, and he often stopped, his body wondering whether or not to check in on the Marquess's health, for fear of him overworking. But then his mind fought back, and unfailingly, Arthur always left once again with the door still firmly shut.

Alfred was also often unable to sleep. Thus, he wandered he halls late at night, and quite a few nights, he had found himself somehow outside of Arthur's bedroom, all the way in the guest house. The Marquess would then sit down with his back to the door, head on his knees, as he thought about his egregious mistakes. However, he was always gone by dawn, occasionally just moments before Belle made her appearance to assist Arthur in his morning preparations.

These instances, added with the fact that they also held their meals separately, ran their schedules independently, and only encountered each other when the situation absolutely called for it (which basically meant only when acting), resulted in their paths rarely ever crossing.

That is to say that Alfred and _Arthur_ rarely ever met at all.

But the Marquess saw plenty of Lady Percy—perhaps a bit too much for his own liking. Elizabeth, Alfred and Francis were still present at those social gatherings and balls which they had already promised to attend, but their appearance only made the atmosphere foul and the air unbreathable, both for those involved and for those observing.

Luckily, Elizabeth was left alone for the majority of it—a fact for which Arthur was infinitely grateful. Sometimes being a woman definitely had its benefits, especially when said woman was supposed to be in extreme emotional distress over the fact that her fiancé's life was at stake. And it was much easier to act this part, considering that Arthur himself _was_ in great emotional distress. He could barely wake up in the mornings and get out of bed, let alone put on layers upon layers of itchy clothing and drag himself around to parties where women would either gather around him with coos of sympathy or send him dirty looks that obviously spoke volumes of how they thought Elizabeth deserved everything that was coming to her.

After all, not many were lucky enough to capture the heart of the Marquess of Devonshire (much to the chagrin of especially those who had been trying to do so for years). Yet here Elizabeth was, throwing that godsend away like it was nothing. The words "whore," "adultery," "cheating," "stealing," and "lying," all floated around in Elizabeth's wake, swarming around her until she could barely stand it anymore. At one dinner party, a week into the two weeks' time, Lady Percy had even fled the main hall to find her fiancé, only to crumple into his arms and beseech that she be allowed to take her leave early.

It was in these times—times in which Arthur was doubting his own love—that Elizabeth realized she had never loved Alfred more than she had right then. The Marquess, ever chivalrous, could not stand the gossip, the betting, the prospecting that was going on around them. He saw how much Elizabeth was often close to tears as she sat through these events, silently taking in the carefully disguised remarks that came hidden behind open fans and smiling lips.

No matter how much it pained him to do, Alfred tried his best to defend his fiancée, for Arthur's sake. He preached to anyone who would listen that she was not to be faulted. It was the ambassador who had presented himself to her, who had approached her when such approaches had been unwanted. And she had refused as graciously as a lady could—or so he said. It would have been very nice if that was the actual truth in the situation with Arthur, but Alfred was beyond hoping for that, especially since Arthur continued to cavort with Francis, even after the duel had been declared. The actor sure knew how to hit where it hurt.

Although Alfred gave the defense his best effort, it inwardly brought him no small satisfaction to see the Elizabeth suffer. She was the root of many of his troubles, after all, though he had found her tolerable at first because of Arthur. But now that the sight of the actor also brought along its fair share of issues, there was almost no reason for Alfred to like Elizabeth, beyond the fact that she was his fiancée—by his own oh-so-cunning plan.

Needless to say, there were times in which Alfred sincerely doubted his own intelligence. That scheme had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time, and now it was an absolute misery.

If Elizabeth and Arthur really _were_ different people, then Alfred would have likely watched these events unfold with _glee_.

But as it was, if Elizabeth suffered, Arthur was undoubtedly suffering as well. And as much as Alfred resented the relationship the actor had with the ambassador, and as much as he was still angry at Arthur for what the Marquess (irrationally) felt was a deep betrayal, at the end of the day, Alfred was still tumbling head over heels for his countryside employee. He would have liked _not _to be—well, that was a lie. It would have made made matters unimaginably easier, but being in love did have its moments.

Too bad that most of those moments seemed to have passed and were already long gone, leaving nothing but darkness in their wake.

* * *

Francis uncrossed and crossed his legs for the fifth time that minute, or at least it seemed like it, though the Frenchman had already long lost track of time. All he knew was that he was in one of his sitting rooms, he wasn't hungry (though he hadn't eaten), and it was daylight. More specifically, it was early afternoon—noon on the day of the duel.

Often one to take care of his nails well, for they were the pride and joy of every well-groomed man, in Francis's opinion, the Frenchman found himself biting upon them now, nibbling absentmindedly at his thumb as his naturally perfect eyebrows were crinkled with... worry? Had anyone been there to witness it, they would have pegged his fidgeting as the result of such an emotion. But if anything, Francis was perfectly calm.

Well, about the matter of his imminent death, at least.

No, what was bogging down Francis's mind was a set of mundane questions and problems, which he was currently using to occupy his attention and pass the time until the duel. He didn't trust himself to have the attention span to do much official work, or the desire to do it, for that matter. What use was there in caring about the passing around of petty things such as gold and wealth when Francis was likely to not even be around to worry about it further beyond today? His will was already written, for the sons he obviously did not possess. Thus his wealth would be spread out, divided among those who had been loyal to him over the years. A little of it even went to Arthur, though the actor would likely never accept.

Francis had been hesitant about that at first, especially since it would have been suspicious for any sum to pass on from his hands to an actor from the countryside. But... well, in reality, he felt like it could serve as the apology he would never have the chance to give.

Over the past week, the ambassador had had plenty of time to himself to gather his thoughts, in addition to sorting out his final affairs in case the worst outcome did indeed come to pass. He had tried to continue his "affair" with Arthur after his confrontation with the Marquess, but the sex hadn't even been brilliant anymore. It had never been great, to be honest, considering Francis had just been pretending that it was another body moving beneath him—one he knew he never could have held again.

But pretend was fine, back when Francis still believed that at least there was some truth to be had underneath all the lies. He played the game because it was his own twisted way of showing Alfred his remaining affections, much like he hoped the Marquess was doing by playing in return. Living under that pretense was as close to happiness as Francis could have gotten—before that fateful conversation in the dead of night two weeks ago, that is, when his life had finally changed. It was in that conversation that the ambassador realized once and for all that Alfred really had found someone new, thereby achieving the one thing Francis _knew_ he would never be able to do—

Move on._  
_

After that, intercourse with the culprit behind such a change in the Marquess's stubborn heart did nothing for Francis anymore. There was no longer even any satisfaction in hurting Alfred, simply because back then—before the truth hit Francis like a tumbling obelisk—the blackmail, the taunting, the teasing was all a sort of special Bonnefoy-style game of "hard to get." Except now there was nothing to "get" anymore. Things really were over.

And Francis owed Arthur an apology.

Money would hopefully do the job in death, and if left alive, Francis would likely never say a word about it—mostly because at that point, the ambassador, king of relationships and peaceful negotiations, was sure that even with his own prowess, there was nothing he could say that would bring Arthur even remotely close to forgiving him for the death of one Marquess of Devonshire.

Ambassador Bonnefoy was not a bad man. He had a slew of people willing to line up behind him and defend him to the grave. Things were simply a _little_ bit sour between him and his ex-lover—honestly the only lover he had ever truly possessed, despite his vague reputation as a flirt. Alfred Jones was something special, though, a cut above the rest. Everyone around the Marquess realized it, including, clearly, Arthur as well.

But the ambassador knew he had destroyed that relationship enough as it was. He wasn't proud of it, upon reflection, but he wasn't guilty about it either. Love was a sick and twisted thing, and all play was fair play. If Alfred had the right to hurt him, Francis had the right to hurt the man right back, all accomplices included.

Francis finished with the thumbs of both hands, leaving his nails mangled stumps as he thought about frivolous things like gardening patterns and wine aging techniques. Having done this for about the past two hours or so, Francis was close to the point of recycling information. It wasn't like his brain was a never-ending well of mundane knowledge, and keeping away from the serious matters of business and politics definitely left little to be had in a mind so used to thinking upon current affairs. It was a little funny, actually, considering the current affairs involved mostly Francis and Alfred at the moment.

Ambassador Bonnefoy looked up at the heirloom clock he had sitting upon the mantle. The ornate timepiece was a gift from Duke Harrington. It seemed that any decorative piece Francis had lying about came from the Harrington family in one way or another. This specific one had been imparted upon him with relatively warm wishes. A small smile ghosted about Francis's lip as he remembered the Duke's exact words, which still stuck in his mind verbatim, even after all this time.

_"I am not happy about it, by any means, monsieur Bonnefoy. I still haven't quite come to terms with it either. But it seems unavoidable, so if it must be anyone, I am... how should I put it... I am _content_ with the fact that it is you, someone so well spoken and respectable, who is my son's... lover."_

The way Sir Harrington had swallowed nervously at that last word had been so uncharacteristic of the Devil Duke's fearless personality that Francis remembered he had almost laughed at its sheer comicality. That would have broken the spell of the moment, however, and so, young Francis had only solemnly accepted the token, still reeling from the surprise that this situation was even occurring in the first place. He remembered distinctly that it was with great disbelief—and even slight suspicion—that he had thanked the Duke for his gracious understanding. After all, not many sons were lucky enough to have a father who not only knew, but also (grudgingly) _accepted_ the darker sides and secrets within their sons' lives.

Francis's father himself had disowned him the moment his naively young self had decided it was a decent idea to let his old man know that he was capable of feeling _anything _toward men. It was done in a quiet way, at the very least, which enabled Francis to still go on and possess the successful career that he did. But Francis was capable of feeling affections toward women in addition to men, unlike Alfred, who was decidedly against the female population. In light of Francis's father disowning him for merely his "greater range" of possible lovers, Francis could barely believe at the time that the Devil Duke, so strict and feared, would still somewhat stand by his son, even after discovering (by his own means and observations) that Alfred could only ever really love people of his own gender. That likely meant no marriage, no wife, no children.

The end of the line.

If _that_ wasn't the greatest and most disheartening shock to a man of such a great wealth, power, and familial history, Ambassador Bonnefoy didn't know what was.

Alfred was such a lucky bastard, and he didn't even know it. That was the frustrating part. For a man who so often victimized himself, who so often viewed himself as the odd one out, the one left behind in the rain, Alfred was so incredibly fortunate that it sometimes almost made Francis hate him for it. But only sometimes, and only almost.

The ambassador had been staring at the clock for quite a while, lost in his old memories and thoughts, before he finally managed to shake himself out of it and bring himself back to reality, back to the matter at hand: his own death. One final focused glance at the ornate hands of the mantlepiece confirmed it. It was time to face the music.

With a surge of energy and a grim resolve to do what must be done, Francis gripped his arm rests and hoisted himself to a standing position. He stretched himself out, leaning backwards as he took a deep, cleansing breath. He wrung out his shoulders and rolled out the kinks in his neck as he shook out any final jitters his body could have possessed. Even though his mind was ready to face the end, with only his best effort left to give, it didn't mean that his body was ready to do the same. Too much of a natural instinct to survive still remained.

Francis felt his heart rate speed up as he bent over, giving his toes a light touch. He was wearing clothing especially tailored to still look good but give him brilliant flow and freedom of movement. No doubt Alfred would be wearing much of the same, if not items from the very same tailor. It was mostly due to Francis's influence that the Marquess possessed such good style, after all.

With adrenaline now coursing through him, Francis bounced upon the balls of his feet. He felt lightheaded, but his heart took that a sign of readiness. He was already partially passing into the life beyond, it seemed, whatever that was. Much like anyone else, the ambassador hoped for Heaven, but chances were, from the way he had lived is life, Hell would have been getting off easy.

Ambassador Bonnefoy took one last glance at the clock, letting the nostalgia wash through him once more. He had led a brilliant life, he had to admit. Even after being disowned, he had still managed to create a proud and spectacular career, propelling him right into the very tightest circles of arguably the most exclusive group of citizens in the world. He had also developed a magnificent reputation, contributed to a variety of important and life-saving treaties, and changed (or so he liked to think) the continent-wide standard for civil debate as well.

Although his most important and impressive feat in life, in Francis's esteemed opinion, would always be capturing the heart of one Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones, Marquess of Devonshire. He had been the only one with such a feat to his name until a pair of viridescent eyes had come along to take the throne.

Well, you win some, you lose some. Even this situation wasn't much different from that, in a way.

Francis stretched his arms one last time before he nodded to himself, closing his eyes and speaking a quick prayer. He then calmly but swiftly approached the door. On his way, he nonchalantly picked up his undecorated sword case, without a thought as to how insane it was that he was putting his life on the line at the defense of a single blade. With no final hesitation, no break in his stubborn but grim resolution, Ambassador Francis Bonnefoy was out the door.

A dead man walking.

* * *

Alfred licked his lips, wetting them just as quickly as the blazing end-of-June sun chapped them once again. He took one glance down at his blade, which was glinting at an angle that was almost blinding to the crowd that had slowly gathered upon the field. It was quite a numerous crowd, but they gave Alfred a wide berth, partially because the Marquess occasionally gave his sword a few wide swings to test its weight and balance, and partially because many of them had witnessed enough of Alfred's fencing matches to know the glare that the Marquess would send their way if they came any closer. They stood far off along the side, most of them under the protective shade of the blooming trees. The women gripped their fans for dear life, while the gentlemen bore their burden of layered clothing with courteous and polite expressions.

Elizabeth was standing partially among them, though in a position (as she insisted) right in the middle, where all would be visible. Some considered it improper for a woman, especially the fiancée, to be witnessing such heart-wrenching and tragic events unfold, but Elizabeth had threatened them with tears and feminine distress until they had finally relented. Arthur knew that whatever happened would be partially his fault, and as such, he only owed it to both participants to view each and every scene. He had come to terms with the matter already, after long nights of thinking alone in his bed. Of course, Arthur wasn't sure how he was supposed to cope with the result, whatever it was, but he was at least knowledgeable of the fact that he was basically an accomplice to the death.

It was ironic how months ago, he was thinking that he was far too young to die, yet now, it was just the opposite. Arthur still felt far too young to kill.

Many people had canceled their previous engagements just to come and witness this much-discussed spectacle. Alfred was aware that there was plenty of under-the-table betting, which was highly offensive, but could never be prevented. A few of these people had come to see the results of their gambles with their very own eyes, while a few others were there because it would have been _ preposterous_ not to have been able to say that one attended such an event. Plus, Francis had not mentioned that it would be a private affair, so naturally, everyone and his mother decided that it would simply not do to _not_ attend.

The sword glinted further as Alfred absentmindedly moved it back and forth, his eyes looking but not really seeing. The dazzling light from the blade shot right at the listless collection of observers. A few of them shifted and looked away, but Alfred paid them no mind. They could have been mere blades of grass, for all their importance was to the Marquess, their movements just a side effect of the nonexistent breeze. Alfred had better things with which he could occupy his mind.

Like death, for example.

The Marquess was not nervous, contrary to how most would have been in his situation. Quite a few of the aristocracy had approached him already, patting him on the back and giving him wishes of good luck. Although he thanked them graciously enough, Alfred inwardly scoffed at such treatment. He did not need luck to come out of this situation on top. In fact, if he put his faith in such a frivolous idea, judging from his record with Lady Luck already, Alfred was sure he would have been dead from some sort of poisoning even before the match began.

Alfred was tossed out of his deep thoughts by yet another hand upon his shoulder. Turning around, the Marquess was ready to confront the man with his standard speech, until his eyes landed upon who it really was: Charles Brentford, Earl of Westerholme, also known as Alfred's second—not that the Marquess needed one. It was simply standard to choose somebody, but Alfred was not going to let someone win the fight for him, especially when he was actually quite sure he could win himself.

"Good afternoon," Alfred murmured, letting a small smile manifest upon his lips. He didn't have energy for much beyond that, but for Charles, there was always at least a small reserve left. After all, if it weren't for the Earl and his challenging fencing matches, Alfred would have only been half as good as he actually was. Charles could have very well been responsible for saving Alfred's life later on upon the field.

"Hullo," the Earl replied, nodding in greeting. Though his lips were relaxed and set in a lighthearted smile, his eyes were clouded over with worry. "How are you feeling?"

"Alive," Alfred breathed, giving his sword another swing. His father would have been bristling at this show of poor manners, practicing upon the field, but the Marquess did not care. The Duke was not even present at the moment anyway—not that Alfred knew, for he surely had not searched.

"That's good," Charles laughed, giving Alfred's shoulder a squeeze before letting his arm fall back to his side. "Let us hope that that feeling lasts beyond today."

"I'm sure it will," Marquess Jones replied with no hesitation, his eyes already fiercely fighting off an invisible foe. His voice rang out confidently, with no trace of worry or fear.

"Good, good," the Earl of Westerholme murmured, before falling into a companionable silence. He stood by his friend's side for a few minutes, watching as Alfred gave a few more half-hearted swings. He wasn't even trying, having already warmed up long ago. Now it was merely for the comforting weight of a weapon in his hands that Alfred still stood upon the field, far away from everyone else. Well, that and he didn't think he could deal with the superficial aristocratic coddling at the moment.

"Look, Alfred," the Earl began, "how are you really feeling?"

Something in the Earl's tone caused the Marquess to stop his aimless movements and look up. Alfred gave his friend a careful once-over before replying, with a slightly quizzical expression, "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Charles said, placing his hands in his pockets in a way that only spoke of grace and distinction, the true carriage of a nobleman. He met Alfred's gaze with a strong one of his own, his intently focused eyes passing on the final message. Of course Alfred knew.

_Are you ready to kill__?_

It was notably not a question of readiness for death, for both Alfred and Charles knew of the Marquess's sheer prowess with a blade. They practically had the victory already. No, the problem lay in the price that came with said victory. For one to come out on top, another must fall—often, permanently.

"I am fine," Alfred replied, though he did look away once again as his words passed through gritted teeth. Despite the past two weeks of constant thinking, Alfred was still unsure about the matter. There had been times when his anger had resurfaced so strongly that he felt like he was ready to kill a whole hoard of Francises. But there were other times when he would get brief flashbacks of times long gone, memories of a—mistaken—relationship he had once possessed. And it was in those times that Alfred desired most to return to Le Chateau and work things out like... well, diplomatic ambassadors.

But they were beyond the point of a simple discussion now.

"Are you sure?" the Earl asked, giving the turf beneath his feet a gentle kick. He was trying to play the situation lightly, but the skepticism was clear in his voice. That angered Alfred.

"Of all the years that you've known me," Alfred began, nostrils flaring as he gave a particularly harsh jab at his malevolent foe that was the air, "have you ever known me to be a coward?"

_It's not a matter of cowardice or bravery_, Charles thought sadly, with a minute shake of his head. However, all he replied was, "No, of course not." He gave the ground another little kick, not hard enough to destroy the grass, but strong enough to emphasize his mild frustration and worry. "I have just never known you to kill, as well," he added softly.

Alfred blinked in surprise. He had almost forgotten that Charles hadn't been there for _those_ years of his life. The Earl was only a recent friend, and one who was new enough upon the scene that the rumors had long dissipated by the time he had even entered the game. Thus, of course Charles was under the impression that Alfred had never come at anything with the intent to kill before.

How wrong the Earl of Westerholme was.

The Marquess shrugged nonchalantly and came to rest with his sword by his side, feeling refreshed and ready for battle, though thoroughly weary at the same time. "There is a first time for everything, Charles," he murmured softly as he gazed distantly into the clouds. Many of Alfred's firsts had been terrible experiences.

The Earl straightened to his fullest height, making as if he was ready to leave. "I know, Alfred." He gave his friend a good natured pat upon the back, smiling as warmly as he could, though he knew Alfred would not care for any frivolous words. "Good luck, old friend."

"I'm only twenty-five," Alfred muttered in mock offense, chuckling as he did so. His demeanor completely changed as he returned his gaze to his friend's face once again, eyes no longer distant, but warm this time. "Although I don't need any luck to win, thank you very much."

Charles laughed, but his eyes spoke of a deep sadness and pity. "My wish is not to count toward your victory, old chap," he spoke, finally letting his hand fall as he turned around to make his way back into the crowd (which had grown even more in number just through the course of their conversation).

"Then what is it for?" Alfred called out quizzically to his friend's slowly retreating back, the ghost of a bewildered smile manifesting upon his lips.

"It is for the consequences afterward!" Charles replied simply, and before Alfred could even begin to think upon his friend's cryptic words, the Earl of Westerholme was already too far away.

The Marquess's thoughtful gaze lingered upon his friend's back for a moment before they passed briefly over to Elizabeth's face, purely by instinct. Her expression was set in deep and stubborn concentration, as if she were ready to see the worst. It was clear what "the worst" would mean for her, though Alfred was quite sure the exact opposite was true for Arthur. The Marquess had already made the monetary arrangements for the actor's wages, in the unlikely case of his death, so there was nothing to fear there. All that was left to do for Arthur was to watch, and then either cry or rejoice.

However it ended, Alfred was quite sure Arthur would have a Hell of a conflicting time acting it out. Was it bad that the Marquess felt just the smallest bit of smugness in that fact?

Elizabeth caught Alfred's glance before he could look away. She took it as an invitation to approach, detaching herself from the crowd and making her way across the field. Belle made to accompany her, torn between her duty as a companion and her desire to let Elizabeth have her privacy. In the end, she refrained from movement, a fact which Alfred appreciated, despite his warring desire to talk to yet avoid Arthur and Elizabeth at the same time.

"Good afternoon, the honorable Lady Percy," Alfred murmured, bowing low at the waist. Elizabeth blushed and curtsied in return.

"Good afternoon, Alfred," she murmured, unable to help a small smile, despite her tension-filled eyes. "There is little space for formalities this day, though, is there not?"

"There is never too little space to treat you like the highest of royalty, Liz," Alfred replied gently, chancing to take her by the hand, despite their crowd of observers. Extended public contact was frowned upon, even between couples long married, but the Marquess thought the aristocracy could just forgive him this once. Give a dying man his last wish, and all.

The sweetness of Alfred's own words had almost choked him, causing his throat to tighten up. But it was worth it, considering the graceful blush that settled over Elizabeth's cheeks. It wasn't her Alfred was trying to placate, however. He was doing it in the selfish hope of seeing some of Arthur's intelligent smile return to those bright jade eyes. Despite himself, Alfred kept searching for it.

But Arthur wasn't budging.

"You are far too sweet, Alfred," Elizabeth replied, not even one hair out of character. "Then again, you always have been." Elizabeth ran her thumb over the wood of her fan, her delicate brows creasing ever so slightly with worry. "How are you?"

"Never better," Alfred assured, giving his fiancée such a beatific smile that Elizabeth was temporarily struck silent. Or more so, Arthur was, having lost his train of thought somewhere in Alfred's perfect face.

"I-I'm glad," Elizabeth finally managed to stutter, her gaze utterly transfixed. Alfred chuckled, though he only found himself wishing that it was Arthur looking at him that way instead of Elizabeth. The feeling behind the gazes of actor and of Lady were wholly different, despite the fact that it was still technically the same set of eyes. Arthur's acting was far more brilliant than Alfred had ever even realized.

"You ought to return to the Count and Countess, Liz," Alfred murmured, more for his sake than for hers. Arthur's proximity, however comforting yet painful, was at least tolerable despite the conflict. Elizabeth's, however, was not.

"Y-Yes," she replied, blinking, some sense finally returning to her head. "But before I do, I just..." she trailed off, glancing back down at the richly thick ruffles of her dress. "Alfred..."

"Yes, love?"

Elizabeth took a deep breath then looked up at Alfred's slightly bemused expression. "I—I don't want you to die!" she cried, tears glistening brightly in her eyes.

"You're worried about that?" Alfred murmured, his eyes alight with mirth. "Don't, my dear. Frowning does not suit your complexion, just as anxiety does not match your heart." Alfred leaned in close to her ear, just the way he knew women liked it. "Smile for me, love, and I will live on," he whispered.

Elizabeth shivered and Alfred laughed, sweetly enough that it was clearly not in any ill will toward the Lady. He was merely amused, in the sense that he thought her worry was cute—or at least he acted like it. In all honesty, it was quite annoying, and this conversation was distracting him from much needed mental honing. If Arthur wasn't going to make an appearance in this conversation, then Elizabeth had no point in being there, in Alfred's opinion.

But he was trying hard, and it was paying off. Elizabeth was practically glowing. In her eyes, Alfred was never more brilliant than he was then. He was so kind, smiling at her and trying to soothe her worries, despite the fact that she should have been comforting him instead. It was the mark of a true gentleman, in her opinion, and she once again wondered just how she had been so lucky as to land a man like him.

Despite Elizabeth's warmth, Arthur felt cold to the bone. He felt like he was helplessly watching the scene unfold, like an audience member trapped in his seat, viewing the stage. Those sweet words, that warm breath—none of it reached his heart, which felt like it was shriveling up considering the excruciatingly constricting pain within his chest.

In the past two weeks of lacking proximity, public or otherwise, Arthur had started to forget just how much he could be at Alfred's mercy, and how much he _missed _being at Alfred's mercy, to be honest. But only in the gardens and those private rooms, when they could just be themselves with no other pair of watchful eyes. Now, under the guise of Elizabeth, this warm attention just felt downright cruel instead.

But Arthur, too, was trying, just like Alfred.

Elizabeth took Alfred's hand in both of hers and beamed up at her fiancé. Alfred looked lovingly back at her, which made it harder for Arthur to do what he was about to do. But he had to. This could have been his last chance, and very much like Elizabeth—in fact, far more than Elizabeth—Arthur didn't want Alfred to die either, especially without a few last words that remained glaringly unsaid.

"I..." Elizabeth began, her voice breaking ever so slightly in a way that could have easily been interpreted as a side effect of crying. But it was merely Arthur, forgetting himself and his act for just a short moment as he swam in those piercingly cerulean eyes. "I..."

Alfred gave Elizabeth's hand an encouraging squeeze, even though he wished that she would loosen her grip ever so slightly. In fact, moving a couple hundred yards away would have been nice as well.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and steadied herself. Arthur concentrated on calming his heart, though to no avail. He had to say it. It was now or never.

"I love you so much, Al."

Elizabeth murmured these words gently, and it absolutely broke Arthur's heart. His hands were practically squeezing the life out of Alfred's.

The Marquess was vaguely annoyed that Lady Percy had forgotten once again. Only two people had ever called him "Al" with his consent: his mother, and in more recent times, Arthur. Alfred had thought that that number would have remained as one person for the rest of his life, but Fate had had a way of surprising him once again. Pleasantly so, at first, but now Alfred wasn't quite so sure anymore.

"Alfred," the Marquess corrected gently, "is my name."

But instead of relenting as usual this time, Elizabeth only smiled sadly and let go of Alfred's hands. She stepped back, running her eyes over that face she loved so well, as tears threatened to spill forth.

"I know," she replied simply, though it was only Arthur's heart reflected within those viridescent eyes. No trace of Elizabeth, but only for a brief flash, and then he was gone.

Alfred blinked quizzically at her, unsure as to what he could say in reply. He was a bit too surprised at her sudden unpredictability to even formulate sufficient words. Surprises were the last of what he needed on this afternoon.

"Best of luck, my love," Elizabeth spoke, curtsying once again. Then without further fanfare, the Lady turned and began to make her way back to her guardians.

"Thank... you..." Alfred murmured absentmindedly, his brain still working out whether or not he had imagined that last moment right there. Had a piece of Arthur resurfaced, or was it just wistful imagination?

The Marquess shook his head clear of the matter, though he couldn't help but cast a few more glances back in his beloved's direction, those startlingly intelligent eyes still lingering in his mind. Whatever it was, perhaps Alfred had the right to fool himself this once, even if it was only a lie. Then again, from the way that he had been treating Arthur for the past few weeks, perhaps he didn't deserve even that much. There was still so much to say, so much for which he had to apologize. But he had simply been far too cowardly to pull it off.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Alfred whispered, turning his attention to his blade once again. "I love you... too."

Sometimes, wishful thinking and self-deception were all one had to live by.

* * *

"I see you have finally found the right way out of your own house," Alfred muttered, giving his limbs a gentle stretch as Francis finally appeared. The crowd fell silent, whatever whispers floating about dissipating almost instantaneously. All eyes turned toward the scene, an epic theatrical production about to unfold, they were sure.

"I am still on time. It is merely you who are early," Francis replied, placing his case into Henri's hands and opening it up. His expression betrayed none of his inner adrenaline, just as Alfred's joking and passive demeanor gave nothing away about his once again growing misgivings about killing. The sight of Francis—dressed up, confident and graceful like always—caused for several of Alfred's qualms to resurface. But now was not the time to dwell upon doubt, otherwise it was possible that Alfred could very well actually perish—and he wasn't ready to give up life just yet, however tragic it was.

"I merely have a dinner engagement afterward," Alfred replied, rolling back his shoulders and standing fully straight. "I wished to have enough time to prepare for that as well, so if you would kindly..." He trailed off, gesturing to Henri, who was still standing there, gripping the open case, his expression the perfect reflection of well-practiced passivity. Very professional. Alfred was impressed.

"Patience was never your côté fort, mon chéri." Francis winked, which for some reason irked Alfred. The Marquess looked away, much to his embarrassment, though he quickly regathered his thoughts.

"And swordwork was never yours," Alfred replied, frowning. His voice carried across the field loud and clear, reaching any and all ears that were ready to listen.

"Touché," Francis chuckled. He took out his sword, a well balanced blade, light and aerodynamic, meant for small fast movements. It had been refurbished in the past week, having fallen into disrepair out of disuse. But the craftsman that had fixed it up was the best in London, and it now shone just as brightly as Alfred's carefully-kept blade did in the scalding sunlight.

Alfred couldn't help the smallest smile, despite his situation. He was so confident in his victory that it felt almost thrilling, especially now that the adrenaline was taking over any weariness that had been borne of overwrought thinking. And if he just avoided touching upon the _cost_ of such a win, then Alfred could almost pretend that this was just another fencing match. The sword was weighted differently from the usual, but the concept was still the same. Go in for the contact and come out unscathed.

It was just another game.

"Shall we begin?" the Marquess murmured, motioning for the Duke of Rutland, their officiator, to approach.

"I thought you would never ask," Francis replied with a smirk of his own. He was not confident in any sort of win, but he knew that he could only do his best, and nothing more. That thought was far more comforting than the ambassador would have expected it could be before this whole affair.

The duke did a brief check of their blades, bringing back the conventions that had long been forgotten about how a duel by swords would be carried out. It was a rarity in this day and age, and many had scoffed at the concept when gossip of the duel had initially made its appearance. But once both Francis and Alfred had separately and on several occasions confirmed the fact, many of the old souls warmed back up to the idea.

Once all was in order, and once the pair of them had gone through the official formalities, the duke gave his wish for good luck and stepped back to take his place among the watchers once again. Now all that was left was for one of them to make the first move, and the dance would begin.

Alfred chanced one last glance at the audience, not for their sake. He was merely searching for the one pair of eyes he needed most, and when he found them, Alfred immediately felt like a changed man. It was not Elizabeth who was looking back at him, those bright eyes shining with cleverly disguised worry. It was undoubtedly Arthur, with the way his brows furrowed and the telltale way he nibbled upon his delectable bottom lip. The actor froze the moment they made eye contact, but that was enough for Alfred. He saw what he needed to see.

Arthur still cared, if only a little. But that was enough for a man who had already given up on everything else long ago.

If he could have rewound time, would Alfred have prevented all of this from happening? Would he have simply taken the ring and left Arthur to Bradley's care? Would he have resigned Arthur to being the anonymous identity of just another actor in his vast and successful theatre?

Alfred would have liked to think that he would have left the actor alone, had he had the sufficient foresight to see this trouble down the road. But those eyes—those _damn _emerald eyes—were irresistible to an aristocrat, especially one from a family supposedly so greedy and so covetous. Alfred had thought once that he would kill for those eyes.

He never thought that it'd be taken so literally.

Alfred turned his attention back to Francis, who had shifted to a beautiful stance, poised and ready for the kill. His aura was practically glowing with lethal intent. There was definitely something different in the way the Frenchman carried himself now, different from those sparring matches they had held long ago, back when this had merely been a recreational sport between two fantastic friends. Francis was more confident now, more prepared. It was as if he—

Then the Frenchman struck, moving faster than Alfred had ever seen him shift before. He changed his weight from left to right, coming in for a thrust directly at Alfred's chest. But surely, the ambassador knew that Alfred could have parried such an easy blow.

The Marquess did just that, and was surprised by a rounding swing from underneath. It was a risky move on Francis's part, for it left his right side exposed, a weakness in his defenses. But the speed with which the ambassador was working was miraculous, leaving Alfred barely any space to even think about taking advantage of such an opening. Alfred swallowed as he immediately saw his mistake.

Francis's style had _changed_.

Of course, so had Alfred's over the time that they had been apart. It was now merely a game of who could adapt faster to each other's improvements, speed and agility versus strength and sheer pressure. Alfred was good at the offensive, though sparring with the Earl had taught him a fair share about defense as well. Thus, he quickly changed his mindset as he adopted a heavy stance, low to the ground but still light on his feet. Balance was the key.

They went back and forth for a while, with only the sound of heavy breathing and clashing steel to disrupt the otherwise eerie silence. Nary a leaf stirred as the captive audience watched, none of them having expected the duel to last that long. Many noblemen had predictably placed their faith in Alfred's victory, and they were now sweating under the worry that their assumptions (and gold) had been misplaced. Francis had come back out of _nowhere_.

But Marquess Harrington was a fast learner. As quickly as Francis came at him, Alfred learned how to parry. Then once he had the defensive aspect down, it was only a matter of time before he began to toss offensive moves back into the fray as well. It was clear from the sweat on Francis's brow that the man was struggling, despite his vast improvements. Francis simply possessed a smaller frame, and he came into the battle at a disadvantage, so it was no surprise. The sweat on Alfred's forehead _was_, however.

They could have been at it for minutes or hours, nobody kept track. But somewhere in the feints, the dodges, the thrusts and the parries, Alfred had been adapting. The mark of a good swordsman was that he could win the majority of his battles, due to sheer skill and a small helping of luck. But the mark of a great swordsman was that he could win practically _all_ of his battles, due to his ability to evolve with his opponent.

And Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones believed himself to be one of the greatest.

Very quickly, the audience forgot about their miserable lives, their dreadful boredom, their vast but aimless wealth. They were enraptured within the swings and swipes, their eyes following those blades as if they were pulled along by strings. This was entertainment far better than any dinner party, and no matter who came out on top, it was sure to be the highlighted topic of conversation for _months_ to come.

Charles Brentford, ever keen and knowledgeable, watched with a much closer eye than his fellow onlookers. Standing close to Elizabeth, only separated by the broodingly worried Count Edelstein, the Earl of Westerholme observed their footing, weight balance, and changes in center of gravity, all in addition to just the sword movement.

When he gave a startled gasp, Elizabeth jumped, shooting him an anxious and slightly reproachful glance. Before she could even ask what the problem was, the rest of the nobility around her cried out themselves, several women even looking away and wincing as they exclaimed their high pitched surprise behind suddenly open fans.

Arthur involuntarily clutched at Belle's arm, his heart at his throat, his mind already fearing for the worst, even though he could barely even register what that possibility was at the moment. He whirled back around, eyes at the ready, and there it was—

Francis was on the ground.

Alfred's sword point was threateningly positioned right at the Frenchman's throat. One small movement to the left, one ounce of pressure, and Francis would have been bleeding. Any more, and he was sure as dead.

It took quite a few breaths for Arthur to stop hyperventilating, and Belle had to pat his arm soothingly as he shuddered uncontrollably. It was a brilliant act, in Belle's opinion. She was in awe of Arthur's ability to portray such horror at the possible death of Elizabeth's fiancée. Of course, little did _she_ know...

Before the nobility could break out in surprised chatter as they were wont to do, Alfred stepped in closer to the Frenchman at his feet, silencing the audience. This was his stage, his time to shine. All men might have had their exits and their entrances, but it wasn't the Marquess's cue out stage left just yet.

"Francis Bonnefoy," Alfred spoke, his voice low but clear. A small breeze had picked up, brushing leaves into his slightly matted yet tousled hair. "I..."

Alfred stared down at that heavily breathing face, that defiant expression that Francis still held, despite the fact that the ambassador was one movement away from death—and by painful bleeding, no less. Not the fastest way to go.

Could Alfred do it?

"Oui?" Francis spoke breathlessly but challengingly, making sure to stay as still as he could, despite his strong urge to swallow. That would have been a bad way to die.

"I..." Alfred hesitated a moment before finishing. "I am offering you the opportunity to concede."

Everyone else would only view it as compassion, as an act of kindness to let his opponent go when Alfred already had the victory secure in his hands. It was the mark of a gentleman, to be satisfied with only the concept of victory, without the need for bloodshed and unnecessary deaths. This was the noblest of the noble.

That would be the impression, at least, but both Francis and Alfred knew better. The Marquess was simply having qualms, and this was his easy way out. Well, there was no way that Francis would be that kind.

"Never," the ambassador hissed back, a small smirk at his lips. There was a nick next to his nose that was already scarring over, the blood running thin scarlet rivulets down his scruffy, unshaven cheek.

"You are leaving me no choice," Alfred said threateningly, his eyes glinting. It looked so real that for a moment, Francis believed Alfred could and would actually do it. Too bad that the Frenchman had accepted the fate of death long ago, and it no longer posed any threat to his confident and composed self whether Alfred was serious or not.

"You also left me no choice before," Ambassador Bonnefoy shot back. "It is only fair, non?"

That ghost of a smile on Francis's lips was really beginning to get on Alfred's nerves, even though the Marquess's cold dead eyes betrayed nothing. Alfred was struggling internally, until he came to realize then and there that he could not do it. He really couldn't. He had won already, so why wouldn't Francis just save his own damn life and _back down_?

Of course, Alfred already knew the answer. If Francis left now, he would have no life to which he could return, save one of loveless disgrace. And for a man so proud and accomplished as the ambassador, such a Fate was worse than death itself.

They were at a standstill.

"I am warning you—"

"With what, mon ami?" Francis would have shrugged then and there, if he thought it wouldn't have drawn blood. "If you will kill me, do it now. And I pray zat you do it swiftly."

Alfred stared long and hard at the man below him. To his credit, Francis stared right back, his eyes hardened and determined. Hopeless depression coursed through his veins, because after all, those cold unfeeling eyes above him were once the eyes of his lover. This was an unfathomable turnabout from the way things once were, but Francis let none of his sadness through, just like Alfred betrayed nothing of his own wavering strength in his carefully guarded gaze.

"Do you not have a dinner to attend?" Francis asked, too softly for his voice to carry in the wind. It was only in that small moment that he let even a little of his hopelessly sad emotion shine through, right in that bittersweet smile, too real to be acted. Alfred felt his will crumbling, as he forgot for a moment why he was even there, sword lifted to Francis's throat. Was Arthur's affection worth the death of a respected ambassador? Heck, this didn't even guarantee Arthur's affections. If anything, killing Francis would warrant even more of the actor's hatred and resentment.

It was only now that Alfred began to really realize just how stupid he was. But before he could say anything else, Francis's carefully calculating eyes suddenly changed expression. They lit up and the ambassador abruptly fell flat on his back and wormed his way backwards. He flipped onto his feet, gracefully coming up to a standing position. This distracted Alfred from his temporary moment of sentimentality, and he was right back on guard once again, his sword up and at the ready.

The Marquess, highly offended, opened his mouth to speak, but Francis was already there.

"Marquess Harrington! I do not sink zat it is fair for you to decide matters by such an outdated means," he accused, his face contorted in affronted outrage. The Frenchman gave Alfred a small wink only he could see before continuing, all the while with Alfred completely lost as to what was happening. "Let us settle zis like _men_, monsieur."

"What? What do you mean?" Alfred asked, his bewilderment completely truthful, the most convincing of acts. He searched Francis's eyes, trying to discern just what was happening, but all he saw was disgusted anger staring back. Francis was already deep into his act—but that was the thing: Alfred could _tell_ it was an act. Just what in the world was happening?

The Duke of Rutland detached himself from the crowd, which was thoroughly silent as they too struggled to figure out just what Francis was talking about. The ambassador turned when the duke asked if there was a problem.

"It is an outrage to zis age of innovation to settle matters zis way," Francis ranted, complete with sharp emphatic gestures and all. "I _demand_ zat we utilize _real_ weapons. It is an insult ozerwise."

Alfred flared up, completely caught up in that argument as he forgot his confusion for the moment. "Wait a minute—an _insult_? _Swords?_" He couldn't believe his ears. If anything, it was a damn sacred art.

"Oui!" Francis cried back, possibly overdoing the act just a little bit. However, perhaps that was only Alfred's well-tuned nature noticing it instead, for the duke seemed highly convinced of it. "We must use pistols," Francis concluded._  
_

"Monsieur Bonnefoy," the duke murmured placatingly, "it was you who suggested the means of settling this score in the first place."

Francis shot Alfred a glance. "I was feeling generous," he muttered, "but I do not know why. It is clear zat zere is no trace of amicability left in 'is _blackened_ soul." Francis jabbed a finger in Alfred's direction as he ran his other hand frustratedly through his heavy locks. "So since it was my right_,_" the ambassador argued, "to choose the weapon before, ze same right still stands now."

"But you cannot simply switch once it is decided—" the duke began, his perplexed expression quickly devolving into one of agitated exasperation.

"I can if the Marquess agrees," Francis pointed out, using his quick thinking mind to his advantage. It was very difficult to win a debate with an ambassador.

"_What?_" Alfred cried. Why in the name of all things would he have ever agr—

Ah. But there it was. His way out.

If they kept with the swords, Alfred would have been forced to kill while still staring right into those very same eyes he used to love so much. But guns were impersonal, and seeing as death seemed unavoidable, now that Francis had made his stance clear, that could have just been the best bet to settle this matter once and for all. Any more with the swords and Alfred wasn't sure if he had the stomach and the nerve to continue on, Arthur or not. In fact, if he killed Francis with a gun rather than with a sword, even less blame could be placed upon him by the actor, due to the sheer luck of the draw sometimes. And less blame meant a greater chance of forgiveness.

Dear Lord, Alfred wished so much that he had never even issued the challenge for a duel in the first place. He was not ready to kill. He was not ready to die. And he was definitely not ready to incur Arthur's wrath.

How in the name of God had the Marquess _ever _thought that a duel would settle matters?

However, it was far too late to back out now with even a shred of dignity left to his name. Alfred still wanted to fight for Arthur, and he was quite sure he was still willing to die (if not kill) for Arthur. Nevertheless, what use was it if the outcome was even more detrimental to his situation with the actor than the one in which he had found himself from before the duel? Alfred bit his lip. He should have seen this through before acting upon his whims once again.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

"Well, monsieur 'arrington?" Francis said expectantly, pulling Alfred out of his calculating thoughts.

"What? Yes? Yes," Alfred replied quickly, making a split decision. If he came out of this alive, he swore he would put three times more effort into controlling his anger, just so that idiotic situations like this would never happen again. Nobody deserved to die—not for any reason.

"You see?" Francis spoke, gesticulating emphatically in Alfred's direction. "He agrees."

The duke gave Alfred a completely dumfounded once-over, completely not understanding why one so close to victory would give it all up at this point. But the steady way in which Alfred gazed back, added with the confirming nod he gave, was enough to convince the puzzled duke, even if he could not comprehend the reasons. It was not his place to understand, however. It was only in his place to make sure that it was a fair battle—however fair things could get with people so varied in skill sets.

"So be it," the duke finally decided, with a sigh that clearly declared he not only did not follow the proceedings, but also thought that Alfred was completely insane.

Francis spoke quickly to Henri, who had rushed over upon being called. The butler rushed away once again, back in the direction of the house. He was likely retrieving a pistol, if not two, simply because Alfred had come unprepared.

The butler returned at top speed, carrying a case large enough for two guns. Upon opening it up, it was clear that Francis cared for his pistols with much more love than he did his blades. The two revolvers, Colt Walkers, from the looks of it—fresh from the United States—were at their best, recently polished and carefully replaced back into the case. They looked almost new, though judging from their make, they were at least half a decade old.

The duke gave the guns a once-over as Alfred regained his thoughts once again, and with it, his bewilderment. It was to his benefit that this was a nice opportunity to get out of his earlier predicament, but surely that was a coincidence. Then again, it was beneficial to Francis too, to get another chance to beat Alfred out of the game—so perhaps that was the real play. Had Alfred just agreed to his death sentence without knowing it? Should he have taken his victory when he could have? He would have lived, but would he have been able to live _with _it?

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred could see Elizabeth's confused but worried expression, so lost amidst the changes. Her countenance was reflected in the faces of a few others around her as well, including that of the Earl, who was shooting Alfred the most surprised and puzzled look the Marquess had ever seen. Well, at least Alfred wasn't alone in his confusion, even though he already had a vague idea about the reasoning behind Francis's sudden change of heart.

The answer came after the duke let Alfred pick the first weapon, then passed Francis the remaining one. When he retreated back to the crowd, his expression grim as he refused to answer any questions whispered to him, Francis abruptly stepped close to Alfred and leaned in.

"Mark my words, mon ami," he whispered, his voice lethal like a viper's hiss—yet there was an unbearably sad quality mixed in at the same time, "zis is the last thing I do for you."

Alfred blinked and made to turn, but a light hand upon his left arm—the arm on the other side of the aristocratic crowd—stopped him. It was so incredibly gentle, like a lover's touch, rather than that of a man who was about to attempt a kill on Alfred's life moments from now.

"Do not thank me, Alfred. For I will not go easy on you, now zat I have my opportunity for victory once again."

And with that, Francis was suddenly back a few feet once again, his expression just as angry as it had been before, but with a small hint of satisfaction now, as if it was _he_ who had already won. Alfred still didn't quite understand what had happened, but he somehow felt indebted yet cheated at the same time, if that was even possible.

Damn Francis for eliciting such confusing reactions.

"I never expected anything less," Alfred muttered back, too low for anyone else to hear but the ambassador himself. The Marquess shook any distraction out of his head as he honed his attention into the weight of the pistol in his hands. It had been at least a year since he had fired one of these before. On the other hand, if he remembered correctly, Francis had won a medal for his marksmanship just this past winter.

Yes, Alfred definitely felt cheated, any reprieve be damned. He still wasn't sure if he should have taken his win when he could have, but he sure as hell was not appreciative of what he now viewed as a trick on Francis's part. That switch of weaponry had helped Alfred in a way, but it had hurt him so much more—or at least it could.

The Marquess didn't necessarily want to find out how much.

They were to do this the standard way, with pacing and everything. Alfred didn't necessarily want to savor the moment, because there was no longer any moment to savor. He was tired, having spent his energy on his parries and thrusts. Francis seemed quite spent as well, though the prospect of a second chance seemed to have cleared up his expression quite considerably.

Thus, without further ado, Alfred lined himself up with Francis, the two of them facing off in opposite directions.

"I at least hope you end up in Heaven," Francis murmured softly, though there was a hidden resentment there that definitely undermined his words.

"I have no similar wish for you," Alfred shot back, though his full feelings were not behind his words. However, he was not allowing himself any space for sentiment. His mind was already racing, trying to memorize the weight of the revolver in his hands, trying to remember how to aim, trying to focus on imagining where to shoot. God, he had been stupid for accepting the switch in weaponry. He was simply a coward all around, too afraid to kill, too afraid to apologize, and too afraid to admit his feelings to the one person that was behind all of this stupidity in the first place. Now the chance was gone, and that was all Alfred was left with—

The knowledge that he was a coward to the very end.

The duke began to count out the paces, and Alfred felt his heart beat quadruple the counts, increasing with every step. His palms were sweaty, his hair was matted right to his forehead, and his knees felt like they were about to shake right off. The great heroic and gentlemanly Marquess Alfred Harrington, son of the fearsome Devil Duke of Devonshire, was nothing more than a pitiful mess, too idiotic for his own good. He should have listened more.

But once again, Alfred had come to this humbling realization just a little bit too late.

When the duke finally uttered the last word, Alfred's mind suddenly cleared. He felt like the wind from a thunderous storm was rushing by his ears, the sheer might of ambrosia itself coursing through his veins. He whirled around, hands up at the ready, even though his palms felt like they were practically soaked with sweat. There was not enough time to think, not enough time to gauge Francis's state of mind, not enough time to see just what expression was on Arthur's face as he watched Alfred, standing for what could be the very last time.

There was only time to raise his gun.

Only enough time to take aim.

Only enough time to shoot.

Arthur winced and gasped simultaneously, instinctively hiding his face behind his open fan. He had no idea what was going on, or why Alfred had suddenly switched to guns instead of swords, the latter of which clearly being his area of expertise. Arthur understood nothing of the proceedings, had no grasp on politics or rules. All he knew was that he had felt so relieved when Alfred had apparently won, and then that happiness was snatched away from him once again just in the blink of an eye.

And then the process began again, the sweating skin, the erratic heartbeat, the jumpy nature that seemed to overtake his body as he watched on with fixated horror, unable to tear his eyes away until the very last moment. It was a cruel enough punishment to force himself to watch at all, Arthur thought. And now he needed to do it _twice_?

Clearly, God had never forgiven him for his past betrayals.

Arthur's grip upon Belle's arm had been vicelike, and the companion was wincing, but had also been too caught up in the proceedings herself to notice. Then the two of them, much like the crowd around them, watched with twisted fascination as Alfred and Francis went at it once again, this time in a much faster, far more decisive battle.

The actor had counted the steps right along with the duke, whispering under his breath. He had watched those leather shoes tread across the grass, had observed Alfred's intense expression of concentration as he finally whirled around, had admired the extremely magnificent way in which Alfred adroitly lifted up his gun, the steady confidence with which he aimed, and the clarity with which he—

Arthur jumped as the shots rang out, far louder than he thought they would. He instinctively shielded his eyes from whatever horrors awaited him, throwing up one of his arms, fan out in the open. It might have been a feminine reaction that had rubbed off from his role as Elizabeth, but both the Earl of Westerholme and Count Edelstein were turning away as well. It seemed as if barely anyone had witnessed the moment in which the final decision had actually been made.

However, as fast as Arthur could recover his wits and regain control over his body once again, he whirled back around and put down his fan. And then just as quickly, before anyone could say anything, before any reaction could have been made or whispered comments uttered, Arthur fell down to his knees. He did not care about the dirt soiling the priceless dress, nor did he care about the fact that he had pulled Belle down with him before letting go of her arm.

The actor's hand automatically shot to the sapphire ring around his finger, his eyes still glued to the scene before him. He could not breathe, he could not think. All he could do was see—and it couldn't be unseen.

There was one figure still standing, while the other was prone upon the ground. The one lying down was unmoving, almost completely lifeless, as if he had died immediately, upon bullet contact. It had likely been a fatal shot, judging from the blood that was already collecting upon his white shirt. The other figure was still upon his feet, though barely so. He staggered, gripping his shoulder as blood had already began to soak through the clothing under his hand. The man still upright had dropped his gun with a resounding thud, and now he was simply standing there dumfounded at his situation. Wincing in pain, he cursed for dear life.

In cold.

Hard.

French.

* * *

**References/Notes:**

1. "Hello" didn't come about until much later, toward the end of the nineteenth century. "Hullo" was what you said up until that point.

2. "Côté fort" means "strong suit" or "specialty."

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

/collapses

First, if you're one to read the A/N before the chapter, stop now. This A/N is going to give so much away to the chapter, and I want you to discover it in writing, not down here. So I beseech you to read the chapter first (I know there are a few of you out there who do this; you know who you are :I).

If you've read already, then hooray! We've reached that point. This is the absolute longest chapter yet—the longest chapter I have _ever_ written for anything. *dies* And I'm actually quite proud of it, unlike usual.

But I said I'd write an extra good one to make up for the April Fool's joke, didn't I? (I hope you guys liked the joke, by the way. I did it early so that you guys wouldn't be suspicious of me, hahaha. I just needed to lighten the mood of writing this chapter for a bit, since, as you can see, it was dark, heavy, and an absolute _pain_ to churn out.)

I'm also sorry I couldn't do accents for the Count and Countess this chapter. I just don't quite know how to write an Austrian accent from the 1850s, since it's changed so much. And I'm too lazy to look it up and learn it. So you'll just have to make due with them sounding English. OTL

**IMPORTANT NOTE: I promised I would end with a HAPPY USUK ending**, so trust me on this one. **IT IS NOT A TRAGEDY.**

In case you guys haven't seen, I've written quite a few more stories for Sweethearts Week, which is why this one hasn't been updated in a while. And then I've been traveling with Teenage Mouse all around Japan, and we've been talking USUK nonstop. It's given me a lot of inspiration, but for other fic ideas and not this one. OTL

OH! Before I forget, can anyone just fangirl with me for a moment about how PERFECT _In Memoriam A.H.H. _is? Lord Alfred, writing poetry about love and friendship for his good buddy, Arthur? History is _telling_ me that USUK is a thing. IT IS SPEAKING TO ME.

Ahem.

I got some more fanart you guys should all go see and shower with love (because I can't believe how talented all you artists are).

One last thing—PLOT TWIST. Did anyone see it coming that the Duke knew about Alfred's homosexuality? I mean, Alfred isn't the most brilliant at hiding it, no matter how much he thinks he is. Simply not speaking about it doesn't mean that it doesn't crop up in other ways, but still. Did any of you see it coming? I'm curious.

Happy reading!  
Galythia


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